


That's Just The Way You Make Me Feel

by delusionalbookworm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Battle, Bitchy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Biting, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Bratty Crowley (Good Omens), Bruises, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Denial of Feelings, Dominance, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Fuck away your emotions, Hair-pulling, Holding Hands Is My Kink, Light Angst, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Mild Kink, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), One Night Stands, Requited Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Swordfighting, Teasing, Useless Gays, kinkshaming, okay I know I said this was going to be light angst but now it's just angst sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 14:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusionalbookworm/pseuds/delusionalbookworm
Summary: Aziraphale is convinced that the feelings he has for Crowley are a result of Crowley using demonic magic on him. He can't imagine that he's actually in love with a demon."Images flashing through Aziraphale’s mind, of Crowley’s lean, taut frame pressed against his own, those long legs wrapped around his waist. That long red hair tangled in Aziraphale’s fingers. Kisses pressed against every inch of Crowley’s hard, angular body. That prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in Crowley’s throat as he gasped and moaned out Aziraphale’s name. Those were just thoughts that Crowley impressed upon him. They didn’t mean anything."Title is a lyric from Make Me Feel by Janelle Monae





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're just here for the porn, it starts in Chapter 7

The first thing Aziraphale thought when he laid eyes on Crawly for the very first time was how beautiful he was. Beauty emanated off of him, the same way the smell of brimstone did. Aziraphale was almost too distracted by it all to listen to what he was saying. He found himself agreeing to things Crawly said before he had even processed the words, and then having to go back and correct himself.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the way Crawly’s fiery red hair cascaded down his shoulders, or the mischievous glint behind the gold of his eyes, or the way his lips curled up into a devilish smile, revealing sharp white teeth, and a forked tongue. It was all intoxicating. Heaven help the humans, Aziraphale thought, if this is what they have to try and resist. If the face of evil was so damned beautiful, who could blame them for following that face into temptation? Well, apart from God, obviously. God could and would blame them and send them to be punished for all eternity if they did. A helpful reminder to himself of how hard he would have to work to stop evil from triumphing.

After a few thousand years of knowing him, Aziraphale had gotten used to the tug in his stomach whenever Crawly, sorry, Crowley was around. That was just Crowley being his wily, demonic self, trying to tempt him. It didn’t mean anything. Aziraphale never felt such disconcerting urges when Crowley wasn’t there, so surely, it had to be the magic. Admittedly, he did do things that, while not against any specific rules, were also not, strictly speaking, what angels were supposed to do. He did things that were purely for his own pleasure, like eating and drinking. Heaven didn't tell him to do that, and some other angels did think it was strange that he did, but it wasn't against the rules. He'd checked. And he definitely never chose to do any of those things instead of delivering on Heaven’s wishes. Above everything else, what he wanted most in the world was to help the humans, as God commanded him to do. If he could do other things as well as aiding humans, in his own time, then that would be delightful, but he wasn't going to put the Great Plan on hold in order to do so. 

And further, those desires he indulged on weren’t sinful. Humans ate and drank; they were supposed to. He was just being more like a human, which was helpful to the Great Plan, because if he knew what being a human was like, he could more effectively help them. He couldn’t understand human struggles if he didn’t first understand humans. 

So the desire to eat and drink, the desire to sing songs, and tell stories, and dance, none of that compared to the desire he felt around Crowley. By its very nature, it was traitorous. His desire for Crowley was incompatible with his desire to be a good angel. And so that desire was definitely being implanted from the outside, because… because, well, it had to be. 

He’d seen Crowley do the same thing to humans. He’d seen how it worked - the seductive way that Crowley fanned the flames, turning a tiny spark of sin into a raging inferno. The sinful urges were aroused and stroked until they were overpowering. Irresistible. Crowley was very good at what he did. The humans almost always succumbed eventually, if Aziraphale didn’t lend them a hand. If Aziraphale did lend a hand, then things were much more evenly matched. 

Oftentimes, it felt like Crowley and Aziraphale were playing a tug of war with humans’ souls. The human would ultimately be the decider, as whichever side the human tugged on, added their weight to, would win.

But remove the human from the equation. If it was just Aziraphale and Crowley, on their own, who was strongest? Was that what Crowley was trying to determine, every time he tried to tempt Aziraphale? Was it this curiosity that caused him to implant these sinful urges? And the thoughts too. Images flashing through Aziraphale’s mind, of Crowley’s lean, taut frame pressed against his own, those long legs wrapped around his waist. That long red hair tangled in Aziraphale’s fingers. Kisses pressed against every inch of Crowley’s hard, angular body. That prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in Crowley’s throat as he gasped and moaned out Aziraphale’s name. Those were just thoughts that Crowley impressed upon him. They didn’t mean anything.

Alternatively, it might not have been a test of Crowley’s, to see whose will was strongest. Perhaps it was all merely a distraction, to keep Aziraphale on his toes while Crowley did his evil work. Or it might have been entirely for Crowley’s amusement. Perhaps he knew that Aziraphale would have no trouble resisting, and he actually just wanted to watch the angel squirm. Perhaps he liked knowing that Aziraphale’s heart was pounding and his stomach was filled with butterflies, even if nothing would come of it. And truly, it was no trouble to resist. He simply had to remind himself that the feelings weren’t real, that they were a trick, and he was able to ignore them much easier. 

Whenever the feelings did get to be too intense, Aziraphale would simply make his excuses, and leave, and the two wouldn’t meet again for a very long time. The enjoyment he got from his casual association with Crowley wasn’t worth his eternal soul. And as much pleasure as it might bring him to indulge in those feelings, he was fairly certain that that was not what God had had in mind when she’d said, “hate the sin, love the sinner.”

In the year 322 BC, Aziraphale found himself in Babylon. Alexander the Great was about to die, and when he did, there was going be to a vacuum of power. People were going to struggle to try to fill it, and inevitably, war would break out. Aziraphale’s role was to try to protect innocent people as much as he could, helping them to escape the city before the bloodshed got too out of hand, and try to keep things from spiralling too much. But before that happened, Aziraphale was getting himself accustomed to the local culture, learning as much as he could in order to be useful when, as the crude expression went, shit really hit the fan. He was making himself known as a wealthy doctor, a man with some skill at healing, who people could turn to in times of crisis.

One evening he was dining in a delightful tavern, slowly making his way through a bowl of stuffed dates, savouring every moment, when Crowley walked in. He watched as Crowley sauntered over to the bar and slid some coins into the hand of the bartender. The bartender handed Crowley a large jug of wine and a goblet, before moving away to serve someone else. Crowley turned away from the bar, surveying the tavern in search of a place to sit. His face lit up when his eyes met Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale suddenly found himself out of breath. Was Crowley really that happy to see him? He was positively beaming, just at the sight of him. After a beat, Aziraphale remembered his manners and waved Crowley over.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Crowley said as he sat down at his table, getting comfortable and pouring himself a large drink. He pushed the jug towards Aziraphale, encouraging him to help himself. “I thought I could sense your ethereal presence when I first arrived in the city. I was wondering how long it would take us to run into each other.”

“Hello Crowley. Dare I ask, what are you doing here? Not that it’s not good to see you, because it is, but this is a rather vital moment, there’s a lot of potential for things to go very wrong, and so if you wouldn’t mind-" and here, Aziraphale sucked air in through his teeth, wringing his hands nervously – “perhaps butting out, I’d be ever so grateful.”

“No can do, I’m afraid. Orders from down below. They were quite specific. But, don’t worry, I just need to get this one temptation over and done with, and then you can have Babylon to yourself, to do all of your good deeds. I don’t really have any desire to stick around and watch the carnage. I’m more of a ‘stir the pot then get out alive’ kind of demon.” Crowley said, and though Aziraphale found it difficult to tell whether the demon was lying to him now that his bright eyes were always hidden behind dark glasses, he suspected he was telling the truth. He’d noticed that Crowley preferred it when things were fun and easy, and fun and easy was a rather difficult thing to obtain in the middle of a war zone.

“Righto then.” Aziraphale sighed, relieved, “What’s that one temptation?”

“Oh, just some woman whose husband has too many wives. She’s jealous of the rest of them and wants to make sure her kids don’t have to compete with the half-siblings when it comes to getting their inheritance from daddy. It should only take a little nudge, and then I’ll be on my way.” Crowley said, sounding bored at the very thought of it.

“Hm. Well, please do be on your way after you’ve finished. This region needs as much help as it can get, and it really doesn’t need any of your meddling.”

“You know, some people like my meddling.”

“Other demons, you mean.”

“No, not just them! Humans like it too. Gives them a good laugh, if it’s not directed at them personally.”

“Well, you are very entertaining, I’ll give you that.” Aziraphale smiled. He disapproved of what Crowley did, obviously, but a very small part of him did enjoy watching the theatrical nature of it all. Crowley grinned, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but it looked like he winked from behind his dark glasses. 

Crowley reached out and snatched a date off of Aziraphale’s plate, too fast for Aziraphale to stop him. He lifted it to his lips, and sucked the honey coating off of it before popping it into his mouth.

“You could ask.” Aziraphale admonished, watching as Crowley licked his fingers clean.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Crowley asked, reaching for a second. That time, Aziraphale was fast enough, and he lightly slapped Crowley’s hand away.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley gasped, his voice sounding absolutely scandalised, he clearly hadn’t expected Aziraphale to put up a fight. He cradled his hand close to his chest as if Aziraphale had actually wounded him.

“Ask nicely, and I’ll let you have one.”

“Please, Angel, may I have one?” Crowley asked, his voice toeing the line between sarcasm and sincerity.

“Why, yes, of course.” Aziraphale smiled magnanimously and pushed the bowl towards Crowley. The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked upwards and Aziraphale found himself having to look away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a fictionalised account of a historical battle, including some violence, and very mild gore. If that's not your thing, feel free to skip.

The year was 60 AD, and Aziraphale had found himself in a small settlement, the beginnings of a city that would one day be called London. It wasn’t the best time to visit, and he wouldn’t have a lot of time for sightseeing, as there was a rather nasty uprising happening at that moment. Celtic tribes were being rallied together by a woman named Boudica, a warrior queen, and they were fighting back against the Roman Empire.

That wasn’t why Aziraphale had been sent there. Heaven wasn’t really interested one way or the other about the wars humans fought between themselves, on the most part. If one side was desperately evil, then Heaven would take a stand and try to prevent that side from winning (not always succeeding), but in cases such as this, where the fight was a mere dispute over whom should be allowed to rule over whom, Heaven thought it best to stay out of it. Especially since both sides were so filled with sin.

No, Aziraphale was there because there had been reports that the Celtic armies were being aided by demonic forces, and that, Heaven _was_ interested in. If Hell had a stake in this then there must be more to it than meets the eye.

Aziraphale watched the battle take place from the safety of high ground, trying to spot any demons in the midst of all the chaos. The sound was horrific. Disorientating. Metal clanging against metal. Human voices filled the air, bellows of rage, cries of pain, desperate and mad calls to each other. Horses whinnied, and Aziraphale watched as one reared up, throwing its rider off of its back in the process, and bolted. He couldn’t really blame it, that’s what he wanted to do too, but these war horses were supposed to be trained better than that. He furrowed his brow, looking for what might have spooked it, and found his answer. Crowley.

Crowley was in the middle of everything, a sword in one hand, his other free to hurl magic at people and animals with. He must have lost his glasses at some point in the fight, because his golden eyes were uncovered, and positively gleaming. His demonic form kept slipping through, his jaws elongating and unhinging, revealing those dagger-like fangs. He didn’t seem to care if anyone noticed what he was. Aziraphale supposed if they did, they wouldn’t live to tell the tale. Crowley let out a roar, and another horse turned tail and ran. His fiery red hair whipped about his face as he marched forwards, and he brought his sword down in a high arch on the rider who had just been unseated. Aziraphale looked away, rather than watch it land in the poor soul’s body. When he looked back, Crowley had pulled his sword free and moved on. The expression on his face was deeply disturbing, exhilarated almost to the point of derangement. He brought an arm up to his forehead to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes, and smeared blood across his face in the process.

Aziraphale let out a deep breath and lifted his bow. He nocked an arrow and raised his arms, bringing it up to eye level. His right arm pulled back until his fingertips were level with his ear. Every part of his body felt as tense as his bow string. He carefully aimed, not wanting to hit any humans in the process. The head of his arrow was focused on Crowley, and Crowley alone. It occurred to him that he could use a miracle to ensure it hit its proper target, and the reality of the situation sunk in. All he had to do was let go of the string, and this battle would be free from demonic influence. The humans would fight it out on their own terms and whoever was meant to win would win. Just by letting this one arrow fly, Hell’s plans would be thwarted.

Aziraphale had never killed anyone before. Other angels had, he knew that. He’d never been comfortable with that either. Watching Sandalphon at Sodom and Gomorrah had made him feel positively sick. But that had been humans. Angels shouldn’t kill humans, but what about killing demons? Was that okay? Obviously, the other angels thought it was, but what about God? Was this part of her Ineffable Plan? And it wasn’t even killing, really, just discorporating. He’d survive, it would just be his body that died. His mind would be back in Hell, safe and sound. He would be in a lot of pain first, though. He imagined the look on Crowley's face, shocked, pained, looking about for who had shot him. He imagined Crowley's eyes meeting his own, and the horrible realisation flashing across his face.

Aziraphale couldn’t pretend that it didn’t matter that it was _this_ demon. He knew Crowley, he’d joked around with him, he’d bought him dinner. They were friends. Aziraphale blinked his tears away, and willed himself to do it, to just stop overthinking all this, and follow orders. He wasn’t a traitor, and he had to prove that.

He couldn’t. He lowered his arms, and the arrow fell to his feet, as the tension holding it in place was lost. Aziraphale set the bow down. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill his friend. But he couldn’t do nothing. He had to even the playing field somehow. But he didn’t want to do that by killing humans, either.

Aziraphale made his way down to the battlefield, a Roman soldier's uniform replacing his clothes, summoning a large shield into his hand. He ducked and weaved through the fighting, miraculously not being noticed by any of the Celtic warriors. His eyes scanning the ground, he hurried towards any bodies he could see, finding the severely wounded but not yet dead, and healing them, as quickly as he could.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you, I’m here to help.” He assured one such soldier, as he kneeled down beside him.

“No point, my friend.” The man said, shivering as he spoke.

His face was ashen, and he looked like he was struggling to stay conscious. 

“Just make it quick, please.” He begged, his eyes meeting Aziraphale’s, a pleading look behind them. Aziraphale could tell he was trying to keep a quiver out of his voice.

“Nonsense. Tis but a scratch.” Aziraphale looked him up and down and found what was wrong quickly, a deep stab wound where a sword had pierced the armour covering his abdomen.

Aziraphale placed his hands over the wound and pressed down hard on it, making the man cry out in pain. He winced at the sound, but it couldn’t be helped. Beneath his fingers, the bleeding stopped, and the skin began to knit itself back together. Colour returned to the man’s face, and he sat up, surprising both of them with his sudden movement.

“How did you do that?” The man asked, bewildered.

He looked down at his stomach, hands scrabbling at what a minute ago had been a mortal wound, and now was completely healed over. He looked back up at Aziraphale, awe on his face.

“What _are_ you?” He asked, his voice full of both reverence and fear.

“This is hardly a good time for asking questions. Back on your feet, soldier, we’ve got a battle to fight.” Aziraphale said, standing up, and offering a hand to the man.

The man gave Aziraphale a long, hard look, before taking it, his grasp strong. Aziraphale pulled him up, clapped him on the back, then moved on to the next one.

It was harrowing, exhausting work and Aziraphale was desperately relieved when, hours later, he heard a trumpet sound. They were retreating. Thank God. The Romans surrendered the city, and the Celts chased them out, whooping and jeering, and throwing rocks and firing arrows at their backs. Aziraphale changed his clothes with a flourish of his wrists, transforming his Roman attire into one more suitable for a Celtic warrior, and began to search for Crowley.

It wasn’t difficult to find him. All he had to do was follow the smell of smoke and brimstone. It lead him to an abandoned shack; the occupants having fled when the fighting began. Crowley sat outside it, leaning against a wall, looking as exhausted as Aziraphale felt. Whatever he’d been running on earlier had faded, and now he was just sort of staring into the distance, occasionally lifting a bottle to his lips. Aziraphale let his body drop down beside Crowley and held his hand out wordlessly for the bottle. It had been too long a day to indulge in such petty things as manners. Crowley obliged, handing it over.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, eventually breaking the tight, uncomfortable silence.

“Looking for you, actually.” Aziraphale said between mouthfuls. It wasn’t until he’d started drinking that he realised how thirsty he was. Of course, this body he was using didn’t need to be watered like a human’s did, but he always felt much more comfortable after doing so.

“Oh?” Crowley asked, surprise in his voice.

“Heaven sent me to stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Oh.” Crowley almost sounded disappointed at that, as if he'd thought Aziraphale was looking for him for the sole purpose of a friendly chat.

“What is it exactly, that you’re doing?” Aziraphale asked, looking round and surveying all the destruction and carnage that surrounded them. He still couldn’t tell what it was all for.

“I thought that was pretty obvious.” Crowley snapped.

“Don’t play games with me Crowley.”

“I’m not! Really, what kind of answer did you want? I’ve been fighting in this bloody uprising. Simple as that. It really is as straight forward as it looks.”

“I didn’t think this was your scene, Crowley. Personally killing humans, I thought you’d think it was beneath you.” Aziraphale said.

He didn’t care that he sounded like he was lecturing, or scolding. He was too upset with Crowley to sugar coat anything.

“And you didn’t kill anyone today?” Crowley asked, his voice dripping with annoyance.

“No. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“What, you gave birth?” Crowley asked, incredulous.

Aziraphale was lucky he hadn’t been drinking at that moment, if he had, he would have choked.

“What?! No. I was healing people, Crowley.”

“Ah, of course. You and your good deeds.”

“I don’t even think angels can give birth, I mean there was that mess with the Nephilim, but I think the actual incubation, as it were, needs to be done by a human. Not that I would know, I wasn’t involved with that, and the angels that were were severely reprimanded, it’s not the sort of thing we’re meant to do, unless we’re explicitly told to do so, in very unusual circumstances that a Nephilim is required for the Great Plan, and even then, things have to be very carefully monitored.”

“Did you have a point, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, irritably.

“My point was that I was saving their lives, that’s what I meant by opposite of killing. It was the ones that you wounded, mostly.”

“Oh. So you saw to it that I’ve been wasting my time all day.” Crowley asked, the irritation becoming outright anger now.

Aziraphale supposed he understood that, all the effort that he’d gone to, trying to kill these humans, and Aziraphale had simply gone around undoing the damage he’d done. Between the two of them, almost nothing had happened.

“Yes, precisely! I’m just trying to balance out your demonic intervention, make things even and fair.” Aziraphale gesticulated as he spoke, the wine almost spilling out of the bottle as he did.

Crowley snatched it back off of him and laughed coldly.

“Even and fair? When it’s the Roman empire against a tiny island of forest worshipping druids and farmers?”

“The druids and farmers seemed to be holding their own fairly well to me.” Aziraphale said tightly, having seen up close exactly the sorts of injuries the people Crowley was claiming were helpless had inflicted upon their fellow humans.

“Well, yeah, okay, some of them are warriors. But the point still stands.”

“And why does Hell care about this at all, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, still struggling to understand why Crowley was involved.

“Why the Hell not? Look, Rome is going to win, alright? It’s Rome. I’m just dragging this fight out as long as possible. The longer it goes on, the more casualties, the better for Hell.” Crowley said, like he was explaining simple maths to a child.

“Crowley, that’s barbaric.”

“I’m a demon. Barbaric is part of the job description.” Crowley said, his voice tinged with irritability.

Aziraphale sighed and looked away. There were moments like this, when he was reminded of the irreconcilable differences between himself and Crowley, and he never knew what to do in these situations. A silence settled between them again. Aziraphale fidgeted, wringing his hands. He didn’t know what was going to happen at the end of this encounter, and he didn’t really know what options he had. He didn’t want to fight Crowley, but he wasn’t sure what else there was to do.

“I never liked taking orders.” Crowley said suddenly. “I didn’t like it when the orders came from God, and I don’t like it now that the orders come from Lucifer. At least Lucifer lets me do my own thing some of the time, though. As long as some vague evil gets done, he’s happy. It’s only in cases like this where he’s more specific about what needs doing that I don’t have much wiggle room. I prefer to be left to my own devices, if I’m being honest.” Crowley said.

“Hm. Michael has a tendency to micromanage me a bit, too. And Gabriel can be a bit of a stickler.” Aziraphale offered.

It felt strange to complain about his fellow angels, and to a demon no less, but he felt a little of the tension between himself and Crowley lift as he did.

“Yeah?” Crowley said, looking over at him and lifting an eyebrow.

He offered the bottle back, and Aziraphale took it.

“Yes. They can be rather rude sometimes, and quite dismissive of my contributions. And Gabriel in particular finds my more human habits a bit, well, less than ideal, really.”

“Seriously? You’re one of the best beings I’ve ever met, and they treat you like that?” Crowley demanded, sounding outraged on Aziraphale’s behalf, before rushing to add, “That’s not a compliment, by the way, I mean, you’re blatantly, loudly, aggressively good. Just so nice, and so, so thoughtful, and kind, and just, well, good. Good just seeps off you like a cheap cologne. It’s, it’s irritating, quite frankly, how good you are. As a demon, you practically set my allergies off.”

Aziraphale laughed at the disgusted way Crowley listed those qualities, as if he couldn’t think of anything worse in the world to be than nice and thoughtful and kind. Aziraphale’s laughter must have been contagious, because Crowley let out a small laugh too. Aziraphale felt his heart glow, and that fluttering feeling return to his stomach. He loved the sound of Crowley laughing, not at him, but with him.

“Well, I know you didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I’m going to take it as one. Thank you.” He smiled, his voice soft, and Crowley rolled his eyes at him.

“Yeah, whatever.” Crowley looked away, as if thoroughly put out by Aziraphale’s happiness.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to gaze at him while he wasn’t looking. Crowley was caked with dried blood and filth, and still, all Aziraphale could think was how beautiful he was, how much he wanted to hold him close. Aziraphale let out a low, annoyed groan. Even now, even after everything they’d been through that day, Crowley was still trying to tempt him. It was infuriating, and confusing, but Aziraphale tried to set that aside, be the bigger being. Aziraphale waved his hand, and all the dirt that been covering both of them melted away, leaving them both clean and crisp, as though they had just finished drying off from a shower.

“Oh. Thank you. I’d forgotten that was there.” Crowley said, before turning back to Aziraphale. “And if it matters at all, I think I would like it if they did beat Rome. They won’t, of course, but something to strive for, eh?”

“Why does it matter to you whether they beat Rome or not?” Aziraphale asked, wearily.

For a moment, it had felt like the two of them were on the same side, a side that just had the two of them in it, the other side being the entirety of the universe. The moment was gone, and they were back to being opposing forces. The fluttering in his stomach hadn’t stopped, though.

“Well, Rome could use knocking down a peg or two. This whole, taking over countries, having one emperor in charge of millions of people business, it’s not very fair, is it? And they don’t even get a say in the matter.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale briefly wondered if this was somewhat personal to him. If after everything that had happened, and his Fall, if Crowley now identified with the underdog wherever he went.

“You make a good point, but you said yourself that this rebellion won’t work. You said you were only here to drag out the fighting to get as many casualties as possible.” Aziraphale pointed out, and Crowley screwed up his face, opening and closing his mouth several times before he actually started speaking.

“Ehhh, it might work. I mean, I’m cynical, but you never know. And, even if it does fail, it could still go on to inspire others that succeed. It might make Rome think twice about how they treat people.”

“You know, I can’t tell whether you actually have a moral code or whether you make all this up in retrospect to justify doing what you did.”

“I have some morals. Just because they’re not the ones I’m supposed to have doesn’t mean they’re not there.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale didn’t have a response to that. The silence fell again, slightly more comfortable this time. Aziraphale wanted to move closer, rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He was so tired, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could resist the temptation. He had no idea how Crowley still had enough power left to keep using this magic on him. Perhaps it was a subconscious thing, and he didn’t even know he was doing it, Aziraphale mused.

“So, the two of us, on opposite sides of a war.” Crowley said, after a few minutes of silence.

“We’re already on opposite sides of a war.” Aziraphale pointed out.

The weight of that sentence hung in the air between them. Neither of them had ever thought about it as a war before. Certainly, they were on opposite sides, but the stakes suddenly felt a lot higher, when it was phrased like that. And now it had been said, it couldn’t be taken back.

“Fair point. But I more meant. Ah, you know, now, there’s actual fighting involved. Up until now it’s just been snide remarks and tampering with each other’s plans. And… Well, there’s never been any real violence between us before. Uhhh. Shall we just pretend we haven’t seen each other?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale gasped at his audaciousness.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was shocked at what he was suggesting, just outright lying to both Heaven and Hell.

“What? I don’t want to fight you. And I don’t think you particularly want to fight me. Am I wrong?”

“Crowley -” Aziraphale tried to start talking, but Crowley interrupted him.

“Am I wrong?” Crowley demanded, staring Aziraphale dead in the eye.

They were suddenly much closer than Aziraphale was comfortable with, and the intensity of it all was a lot to handle. Aziraphale found his eyes flickering down to Crowley’s lips, and he let out a breath, and looked away.

“No. You’re not wrong.”

“Thank you for saying that. So. What are we going to do?”

“Well, you said this was just about elongating the war. So, I will have to do whatever I can to speed it up and get it over with. Perhaps I can talk to the leaders. Get them both together, do some mediation, try and come to some sort of compromise that will get all the fighting over and done with.” Aziraphale said, flexing his fingers as he began to think of a plan.

Crowley let out a snort of laughter, nipping Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for his idea in the bud. He turned to glare at Crowley, and Crowley, to his credit, at least had the decency to look cowed.

“Alright, Angel, no, good plan. Good luck with it.” Crowley said, trying his best to smother his amusement, and Aziraphale felt himself bristle further. It shouldn’t have been that hard for him to stop laughing.

“I would return the sentiment, but I think that would be rather inappropriate, all things considered.” Aziraphale said shortly.

“Look, night’s fallen, yeah? You’re not going to be able to get anything done in the next few hours. And after all the healing you’ve been doing today, all those miracles you must have performed, you’re probably exhausted. Do you want to come back to the camp with me, share my tent?” Crowley asked.

He seemed sincere, at least more sincere than usual, and if it was anyone other than Crowley, Aziraphale would have said yes in a heartbeat, because if it was anyone other than Crowley, it wouldn't have been a problem. He was tired, and he did want to lay down and rest. The thought of being in such a confined space with Crowley, though, laying next to each other, perhaps even cuddling together for warmth… His foolish heart leapt at the thought of it. He desperately wanted to say yes, to get drunk enough to use that as an excuse and forget about what the repercussions would be. He wanted to throw his inhibitions to the wind, and just spend the night with Crowley.

But of course he couldn’t, because what would Heaven say? He couldn’t even begin to imagine the look Gabriel would give him. He didn't even know what the punishment for this sort of thing was, because it had never happened before. Probably it might even be bad enough to justify a Fall. But, he didn’t know why he was even thinking about that. Of course he didn’t actually _want_ to do any of those things. It was all just a trick.

Maybe he should go with Crowley to his tent, purely to sleep, for the sake of proving to himself that he could be trusted. That he wasn’t some ridiculous creature who couldn’t tell the difference between his own desires and a demon tempting him.

“Angel.” Crowley prompted, reminding him he hadn’t spoken yet.

“No!” Aziraphale said, too forcefully, and Crowley recoiled, an alarmed look on his face. Aziraphale softened his voice and tried again.

“No, I do not. Thank you for the offer, but I had really better get going.” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley his wine bottle back and standing up.

Crowley shrugged, like he didn’t really care either way, and gave Aziraphale a wave, as he proceeded to finish the bottle off. Aziraphale pulled his cloak tighter about him, gave Crowley a curt nod, and walked away. He didn’t know exactly where he was walking to, but he felt that if he didn’t leave quickly then he really would end up sharing a tent with Crowley, like a ridiculous part of him longed to. And that could only end poorly for both of them.

“It was nice to see you!” Crowley called after him as he walked away, and Aziraphale shook his head, then disappeared before he could change his mind.

Aziraphale's efforts to aid the Roman army proved to be unnecessary. Like Crowley predicted, they quashed the rebellion. Between 70,000 and 80,000 people died, many of them by torture, which no doubt delighted Hell. The warrior queen Boudica herself died later that year, by suicide, choosing to defy the Roman Empire by dying before she could be captured. 


	3. The Arrangement (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Up until this point, things have been pretty PG, and that continues over the next three chapters, however we do have Crowley discovering he's a kinky bastard for the first time in the middle of a sword fight, so proceed with that knowledge in mind. 
> 
> Also some mild gore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started off as one long chapter, but someone told me to cut it down into sections, and they were right.

The year was 537 AD, and Aziraphale was cold, damp, and angry with Crowley, in that order.

“We’re not having this conversation! Not another word!” Aziraphale yelled, before marching away from Crowley. He couldn’t _believe_ him. The absolute cheek of it, of suggesting that they disobey their orders and lie to both Heaven and Hell, all purely to get out of doing work.

He strode past his travelling companion, another knight from the Round Table named Sir Percival, who was looking between Aziraphale and the Black Knight, trying to work out what the Hell had gone on out of his earshot. Aziraphale was too angry to sate the other man’s curiosity right then. He liked Sir Percival well enough, but he would have vastly preferred to have been on his own while he mentally scolded Crowley.

How could Crowley be so lazy? He had Fallen because he didn’t believe in God’s vision for the universe and followed Lucifer down into Hell. And now he didn’t believe in Lucifer’s vision either, or at least, didn’t believe in it enough to do the work and carry it out. And so utterly shameless, too, outright asking Aziraphale like that. And absolutely outrageous that Crowley would possibly think that Aziraphale of all people would agree with him. Didn’t Crowley know he was an angel? Didn’t Crowley know he took his job seriously? He wouldn’t shirk his responsibilities just because they were a little inconvenient.

Aziraphale seized the reins of his horse, who had been contentedly grazing, and gave them a tug. The horse let out an indignant huff, but didn’t put up a fight, and trotted along beside him as he stomped his way through the high grass.

“Sir Aziraphale?” Sir Percival called out from behind him, and Aziraphale ignored him, too absorbed in his own thoughts. As he walked, his anger began to cool down.

Perhaps it was better, that Crowley wasn’t as invested in Hell’s plans as he could be. Perhaps a demon who didn’t want to wreak havoc, who didn’t want to cause misery, who just wanted to make things a little more interesting, at least in his own eyes, was better. Even if his own moral code was a little lacking, and his work ethic absolutely deplorable, the outcome for everyone else was surely more favourable if Crowley would rather stay home than be out causing evil.

Aziraphale had previously seen things as black or white, good or evil, either Fallen or not, but Crowley was starting to show him that there were shades of grey. Crowley certainly wasn’t as evil as other demons that Aziraphale had heard tales of. Crowley wasn’t a sadist. Aziraphale couldn’t have been friends with him if he was.

Sir Percival closed the gap between them, and grabbed Aziraphale’s arm, forcing the angel to stop, and turn to face him. Sir Percival was wearing a knights helmet that left only his eyes visible, and they were piercing, searching deep into Aziraphale’s face, trying to figure out what had just happened.

“Sir Aziraphale, might I ask where you’re going? We found the Black Knight, as King Arthur instructed, so why are we leaving?” Sir Percival was intelligent and perceptive. It would have been a lot easier for Aziraphale if he hadn’t been.

“Well, uh, I thought it best to regroup, since there were things about the encounter I hadn’t anticipated– ", Aziraphale said, stumbling with his words. He was not a good liar at the best of times, and certainly not when his mind was so preoccupied as it was at that moment.

“Like the fact that you know him.” Sir Percival stated bluntly. Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that, and his face must have shown it, because Sir Percival continued.

“I didn’t hear what was said between you, but the way you held yourself changed from the second he pulled his visor up. You didn’t look like you were about to fight. And even though he clearly said something that’s gotten you angry, you’re walking away. So, you know him?”

“I – yes, sort of. He wasn’t always the Black Knight. He used to just be a knight, like you and I. He served a different king, not Uther or Arthur. But he went back on his promise to serve, and now, well, you know what he does now.” Aziraphale said, having no choice but to tell the truth, or at least, a slightly altered version of the truth.

“And why did you not duel him, or attempt to arrest him and bring him back to Camelot to answer for his crimes?” Sir Percival asked. Aziraphale realised there was no answer that he could give that would satisfy Percival’s curiosity. Suspicion and mistrust of Aziraphale had started to creep into his mind, and honestly, rightfully so. The second he had realised it was Crowley under the helmet, he had no intention whatsoever of following through on King Arthur’s orders to capture him. That made him… well, a bad knight at best, and a traitor at worst.

“Well, because we didn’t find him, did we?” Aziraphale said. He hated doing this, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Sir Percival fell silent, as Aziraphale’s magic sank into his mind. His memories were being rewritten, the confrontation he’d just witnessed wiped out, and replaced with a fruitless search through the clearing. The magically implanted memories weaved together with what he was currently doing and seeing to create a seamless timeline in his mind. After a beat, he snapped to. His head reared back, and his eyes blinked rapidly as he re-acclimatised himself to his surroundings.

“Everything alright, Sir Percival?” Aziraphale asked. Sometimes human minds rejected angelic magic, but this shouldn’t be one of those times. It was a fairly minor adjustment, and the shorter the length of the memory that was being altered, the easier it was for the mind to accept.

“Yes, of course. There doesn’t seem to be anything of note in this region. Shall we head east, towards the mountains?” Sir Percival asked, and Aziraphale groaned inwardly. He had been let off the hook, and his reward was to traipse around a forest he knew perfectly well was empty, deliberately steering his fellow knight away from the enemy they were supposed to be seeking. Maybe Crowley was onto something. Maybe things would have been easier if they’d both stayed home.

“Yes, good idea. Let us head east.” Aziraphale nodded. He mounted his horse once again, swinging a metal plated leg over its back, and wincing as he settled into his saddle. No matter how hard he tried to get comfortable, there was simply no way to do so dressed like he was.

He wasn’t looking forwards to that night either, when his whole body would be sore and aching, and instead of a comfortable down-filled mattress, he would be faced with either a night sleeping on the forest floor, or a knight’s uncomfortable and starchy cot back at the castle. What Crowley was suggesting was sounding more and more tempting by the minute.

“Let’s ride on!” Aziraphale called out, pushing those other thoughts out of his head. He gathered up the reins and nudged his horse into action. It set off into a walk, and then sped up into a gallop, and Aziraphale tried not to let himself think about any of the more pleasurable things he could be doing instead.

That night, however, it was all he could think about. They had gone too far to make it back to the citadel walls before night fell, so they had had to camp outside for the night. He was laying on the driest patch of ground he could find, and yet he was still damp. And coated in mud, he noted grumpily. Shivering, too, even with the blanket he’d brought, and his fur lined cloak. A minor miracle was all it took to heat himself up, but what he really longed for was to be indoors somewhere. He wanted to be curled up in a comfortable chair next to a crackling fireside, a hot bowl of soup in his lap, with a nice pot of tea at hand. Perhaps even a slice of cake for afters.

Aziraphale was torturing himself with this fantasy, imagining the taste of it on his tongue, the mingling of the jam and buttercream between the layers of sponge, and the exquisite feeling of it crumbling as he bit into it. He sighed as the fantasy evaporated, leaving him back in the forest, having had nought but snared, slightly burnt, rabbit for dinner.

He lifted his head at the sound of something rustling in the underbrush, then relaxed when he realised it was simply Sir Percival moving closer to him in search of warmth, pressing his chest against Aziraphale’s back. It barely took a miracle to produce another blanket, one that he could claim he’d forgotten he had packed, that he spread across the other man. He wasn’t a bad angel, he reasoned. He cared about humans, and he used his powers to help them, whenever he could. It was just that, when offered the choice of an easier path, he wanted to take it. And wouldn’t anybody? Obviously, he wouldn’t take it. It was just a thought. A tempting, tempting thought.

He wondered if Crowley knew the power he had over him. All it had taken was a sentence from Crowley, and Aziraphale’s whole worldview was thrown off kilter. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. This was what Crowley did to him. Every look, every word, he couldn’t help but obsess over them all. Was Crowley tempting him like this to toy with him, or did Crowley feel the same way about him? Did Crowley feel anything towards him at all? Aziraphale didn’t know what he wished the answer to that question was. If Crowley did feel these same urges towards him, would he still be able to resist them as easily? If, the next time he was face to face with Crowley, he leaned in and kissed him, like he desperately wanted to do, like _Crowley was making him want to do_ , and he knew that Crowley would kiss him back…

How did he always find himself back here? That wasn’t what he’d been thinking about originally. He’d been thinking about the suggestion of Crowley’s, the arrangement, for want of a better word. He couldn’t agree to what Crowley had suggested, could he? That would be disobeying Heaven, after all. It simply wasn’t in him. He was sure that if he tried to disobey Heaven something would kick in inside him, like when humans tried to hold their breath for too long. After a while, instinct would force them to let it go and gulp down fresh air into their lungs. He was sure that the same would be true of him and disobeying Heaven.

Although. He had already disobeyed Heaven, hadn’t he, when he had chosen not to fire his arrow at Crowley, on that battlefield, all those centuries ago? And again today, instead of fighting the Black Knight, he had simply walked away, letting Crowley carry on fermenting. Oh God. He’d disobeyed Heaven several times already, and all of them were because of Crowley. Crowley was turning him into a _bad angel._

Even as he resisted the biggest, most sinful temptation Crowley had to offer, there were still other smaller temptations that Aziraphale hadn’t been resisting at all. The temptation to talk to Crowley rather than fight him, the temptation to have dinner with him rather than thwart him. The temptation to be friends with a demon. He hadn’t even noticed them, because he’d been so distracted. Damn. Crowley was better at this than he was.

Wait. If Crowley was better at this than he was, then maybe he should take him up on that offer. Would that actually be the best thing, for Heaven, and for the humans? Crowley had said they were cancelling each other out, as if it was inevitable. But if Crowley was actually better at performing evil than he was at performing good, then… Then in that case, it would actually be in Heaven’s best interest to keep Crowley at home, even if it meant Aziraphale would also be kept at home. Surely it was better to entirely remove the demonic influence from the situation, rather than simply aiming to neutralise it?

And it must be messing with the humans, all that magic they were both using around them. All that tampering they were doing with these humans’ poor heads, it couldn’t be good for them. Just today, he’d had to alter someone’s memories. If he had agreed to Crowley’s terms, and they had both simply left, he wouldn’t have had to do that. The Black Knight would have been quote-unquote vanquished, and the kingdom of Camelot would be better off for it. It would be better for Camelot to have no Black Knight, and no Sir Aziraphale, than it would be for Camelot to have both, surely?

“Sir Percival?” Aziraphale whispered, not wanting to wake the other man if he was already asleep. He wanted someone to bounce his thoughts off of, since he was in danger of going round in circles, and even though he couldn’t explain the full situation, he could put it in terms the man would understand.

“Yes, Sir Aziraphale?” Sir Percival replied in the same hushed tone. Aziraphale rolled over to face him. His angelic eyes could see in the darkness, and up close, without his helmet and all that armour on, Sir Percival was rather handsome. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and the same vivid brown as his skin. He was broad and muscular, the kind of muscles that one could only obtain from years of intense physical labour. His nose was slightly crooked, having been broken at some point in his life, but it only added to his rugged appearance. What Aziraphale liked most about him was how quick he was to smile, and how genuine it seemed when he did. He was the opposite of Crowley in almost every respect, Aziraphale found himself thinking.

“I don’t suppose we could drop with the Sirs, since it’s only the two of us here?” He asked, and a smile spread across Percival’s face.

“Of course. What burdens your mind, Aziraphale?” There was a warmth to Percival’s voice that there hadn’t been before, and Aziraphale supposed he was flattered that Aziraphale wanted to drop the formalities. A sign of friendship, he supposed.

“Well, I was just thinking. If you had a choice, and you could either vanquish the Black Knight, but in doing so, sacrifice yourself, or allow the Black Knight to live, but then you yourself would also live, which would be better for Camelot? If you were still around, you could do great things, and perform other important feats of chivalry and loyalty to the King, that would all benefit Camelot. But the Black Knight would also still be around to perform misdeeds and other acts of menace. Which do you think would be better? The presence of both good and evil, or the absence of both?”

“Hm. It’s an interesting question. And there’s no way to vanquish the Black Knight without sacrificing yourself, in this hypothetical?” Percival asked.

Aziraphale paused. It would be a fantastic trick, to convince Crowley to go home and stop with his evil mission, while he stayed and continued to pour good out into the world, but it wouldn’t last. Crowley would eventually notice that the scales weren’t merely in balance; they were actively being tipped towards good, and then the truce would be off, and all the trust between them would be shattered.

Not to mention the risk to Crowley’s life if whomever managed him in Hell noticed before he did. Crowley had said that they didn’t check up on him as long as they got results, but if they weren’t getting results, they would be bound to check. And then Crowley would be done for. If Aziraphale disobeyed Heaven, the worst that could happen would be a Fall. But for Crowley, who had already Fallen, there wouldn’t be a second Fall. No, Hell would execute him.

And as much as the demon confused and tempted and irritated him, he couldn’t lie to him and set him up to fail like that. For better or for worse, the two were friends, and Aziraphale wouldn’t stab him in the back.

“No, none at all.” Aziraphale sighed. Percival hummed as he thought, and Aziraphale appreciated the consideration he was putting into his answer.

“Well, the loss of any one knight would be terrible, as it always is, but you’re forgetting, there are still many other knights available to the kingdom. The current evil would have been thwarted, and there would still be a great deal of good knights left to defend Camelot from any future threats. It isn’t the absence of both good and evil, as you put it.”

“That is a good point. So you would sacrifice yourself?” Aziraphale asked.

“If that truly was my only option, then yes, I would. I pledged my loyalty to King Arthur and his kingdom, and if I could only protect them by laying down my life, then I would in a heartbeat. I would trust my fellow knights, my brothers, to look after the kingdom once I’m gone.” Percival said, and Aziraphale was struck silent by his resolve and his absolute faith. Percival was a better knight than he was an angel, without question.

“But I’d like to think I’m a better warrior than some miscreant running around calling himself the Black Knight. And, if we should happen to find him on this outing, and God looks favourably upon us, there are two of us, and only one of him. Between us, he doesn’t stand a chance.” Percival said, confidence and determination in his voice. Aziraphale groaned inwardly.

If the Black Knight were human, Percival would be right. He’d seen Percival fight, and truly, he was an artist with his blade. He was graceful and poised, incredibly strong, and had excellent stamina. He could fight for hours, and barely seem to break a sweat. He was also absolutely ruthless. But the Black Knight wasn’t human, and Crowley didn’t have to be a better swordfighter to win. All it would take would be a tiny piece of demonic intervention to have Percival trip over a tree root that suddenly emerged from the ground, and then another for Percival to lose his grasp on his sword in an uncharacteristic yet not impossible moment of clumsiness.

If anyone other than Aziraphale fought the Black Knight, they would lose. And if Aziraphale fought the Black Knight… he didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t particularly want to find out, although he suspected that he wouldn’t have a choice. He couldn’t let his own discomfort at fighting his friend stop him from protecting humans.

“Thank you for your counsel. I’m glad to have you as a brother.” Aziraphale said, putting those thoughts to one side. He didn’t need to think about that right now. It would be easy to keep his fellow knights away from Crowley until he figured out how to handle him.

“And I you. Can we sleep now? We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

“You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“Alright. Wake me when you find yourself nodding off.”

Percival drifted off quickly, a useful skill in an occupation like this one. Aziraphale laid awake and thought about what Percival had said. There were plenty of other knights to protect Camelot. Very true, but how did that apply to his situation?

After great consideration, he supposed the other knights, in his analogy, would be the inherent goodness in humans. If both demonic temptation and angelic guidance were removed, and they were left to their own devices, they would tend more towards good than evil, because it was in their best interests. Humans were a communal species, and it was in each individual’s best interests to protect the group as a whole. That meant looking after each other.

Part of what Crowley did was short-circuit the human’s brains, get them to stop thinking rationally, and instead act on their impulses. If he wasn’t there to do that, maybe people would think things through more, and realise that their own survival depended on them being nice to those around them. Or was that naïve of Aziraphale to think? Perhaps human selfishness would outweigh even their own self-preservation instincts. Perhaps the delayed and more subtle gratification one gained from being a productive member of a thriving community was outweighed by the immediate gratification of following through on whatever sinful impulses popped into their heads. Fuck. Humans were complicated.

Aziraphale stared off into the depths of the forest, wishing, not for the first time, that God had thought to write a user’s manual when she created the humans.


	4. The Arrangement (Part 2)

Early the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise, Aziraphale heard a scream. He wasn’t sure if it was a scream at first, as it came from off in the distance, too quiet to have been heard by human ears. Aziraphale wondered, perhaps if it was a bird’s call, or some wounded animal. His doubts were quickly erased, though, as the scream began to multiply, more and more voices adding together, their terror and panic mingling in the crisp morning air. Something terrible was happening.

He shook Sir Percival awake, and threw the blankets off of them both, getting up and beginning to pull on his armour. Sir Percival stirred at the sudden movement and loss of warmth, and sat up. He was about to complain, but, seeing the urgency with which Aziraphale was moving, he realised that waking him in this manner was no juvenile prank.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, confused, as he couldn’t hear what Aziraphale could hear.

“Something’s happening. Get dressed, quickly.” Aziraphale, now dressed, strode over to where they had tied the horses up for the night, and woke them, too. Percival didn’t question him further, he simply sprang to action, readying himself for battle as quickly as he could.

They left their sleeping packs and blankets on the ground, as there was no time to fold them all up and tie them back onto the saddle bags. If he really needed to, Aziraphale could simply produce more with a single thought anyway, though obviously he did not tell Percival that.

Not wasting a second, they mounted their horses and set off, tearing through the forest at great speed. Their bodies were pressed low against the backs of their horses, urging them on, faster and faster. The hoof beats sounded like thunder rolling across the hills as they deftly wove through the trees, leaping over fallen trunks and branches. Aziraphale was leading the way, since, as only he could hear the screams, only he knew where they were going.

As they got closer and closer to the source of the screams, Sir Percival started to hear them too.

“The Black Knight. It must be.” He yelled, and Aziraphale was inclined to agree with him. What the devil was Crowley up to now?

Their wild chase lead them out of the forest, and across a field, towards a village of farmers, serfs, and peasants. By the time they arrived, the screams had stopped, and been replaced with a quieter, much more potent kind of terror. It was a tiny village, with more stables and shacks for animals than actual houses. All of the buildings were wooden huts, most with straw thatched roofs. There was no reason for it to be under attack, and yet it was.

Aziraphale and Percival slowed their horses down to a walk, as they entered the village. They crept forwards, needing to survey the situation before charging in. They followed the sound of the Black Knight’s booming voice to the centre of the village, staying hidden as best they could. It took a small miracle to conceal them both, as they crept forwards to see what was happening, and a slightly larger miracle to make Percival not think there was anything out of the ordinary about the fact that no one had noticed the two knights in literal shining armour ride up on horseback.

Crowley, for his part, was trying to just get this over with. He had built up this persona of the Black Knight, a fearsome menace to Camelot who would threaten to destroy it, who would strike fear into the heart of anyone who heard the name. He had made up stories of things the Black Knight had done in the past and in other kingdoms, but you couldn’t survive on rumours and stories forever. He didn’t want people to think he was merely a legend, or worse, a real person, who was just a boastful liar. He had to do something. And ideally, that something would be scary, but not hurt anyone. He might be a demon, but he wasn’t a monster.

So he’d cooked up a little scheme. Early that morning, just as the sun was rising, he had gathered his men and rode into the village, whooping and hollering, and waving their swords. They had picked a Sunday, when most people would be in the little shack that passed for a church, already all in one place.

Crowley, of course, couldn’t step foot inside the church. Regardless of how unimpressive it looked from the outside, it was still consecrated ground, blessed by a priest. It didn’t matter, though. He was the one who gave orders, not the one who did the heavy lifting. He waited outside, astride his huge black stallion, while one of his men kicked the door of the church in. A wholly unnecessary move, as it wasn’t locked, but Crowley had a flair for the dramatic, and appreciated the touch. The door slammed against the inside wall, and everyone inside swivelled in their pews, looking round to see what had just happened. What they saw, in the doorway, the sun streaming through around him, was the silhouette of a very large man, holding a very large sword. That was when the screaming began.

People tried to run, but of course, there wasn’t anywhere to go. They were penned in and surrounded.

“Everybody out! Everybody out and no one has to get hurt!” One of Crowley’s men yelled, trying to make himself heard above the commotion.

“This is a church! How dare you desecrate this holy ground?” Crowley heard the preacher yell, outraged, and he rolled his eyes. Of course, the problem wasn’t that Crowley and his men were terrifying people and threatening them. The problem was that it was happening in a church. He wished he were closer, so that he could transform into the preacher’s worst nightmare and scare him silent. Maybe even make him faint.

Crowley’s men grabbed those nearest to the door, and marched them outside, forcing them to their knees. When everyone else saw that that was all the men wanted them to do, some people started complying. Parents, especially, clutching their children close to them and shushing their cries, obeyed, not wanting to make any trouble.

One woman made a break for it, bolting out of the church door and trying to dodge past his lackeys that held the rest of her town hostage. She made it pretty far, but she wasn’t quick enough, and one of them, a towering brute named Bryce, caught her round the middle and lifted her clean off of the ground. He hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her back. She made some strange noise, somewhere between a scream and a sob, and kicked uselessly against Bryce’s armour-plated stomach. Crowley’s insides twisted at the sight of it.

Whilst planning this attack, Crowley had told his men not to hurt anyone unless he specifically ordered them to. He had told them that he expected complete loyalty and obedience from them, and that anyone who dared go against his orders would be severely punished.

“If you hurt anyone unnecessarily, I will personally see to it that you experience the same hurt ten-fold. If you break someone’s arm, I will shatter yours. If you defile anyone, I will personally remove the offending appendage, and make you eat it.” Crowley had told them, looking each and every one of them in the eyes and holding their gaze until he was certain that they knew he was serious.

Even so, he didn’t trust them. He had specifically picked them because they were outlaws, thugs, and rouges. All, by their very nature, untrustworthy. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

“Put her down!” He ordered, and Bryce did as he’d said, dropping her, and pushing her to her knees. Another woman, one of the other hostages they’d taken, pulled her close, an arm wrapped protectively around her trembling shoulders.

“Everyone, silent! Shut up and pay attention!” Crowley yelled, his voice booming across the village, amplified by magic. The crowd quietened immediately, doing their absolute best to comply. Wailing children were shushed and rocked, and some of the adults who couldn’t seem to stop themselves from whimpering pressed their own hands over their mouths, trying to muffle the sounds.

“That’s better! Now. Is everybody here? Nobody skipped church this morning?” He asked. Nobody said anything. Unsurprising. He hadn’t actually expected any of them to sell out their neighbours, some of whom might be at home, listening to all the commotion, absolutely terrified.

“Some of you might have an inkling as to who I am. I am the Black Knight, slaughterer of men and ender of bloodlines, bringer of doom! And soon to be slayer of King Arthur, and new ruler of Camelot.” Crowley declared, and there was a collective gasp from the village people.

As much as parts of this did make him squeamish, he enjoyed that. He enjoyed the theatrics and the drama of it all. He loved playing all of these different characters, and the pantomime-style villains were among his favourites. He loved pretending to be the kind of person who relished being feared and hated, who encouraged boos, even held his arms out and bathed in them. He loved pretending that this was all a show, with a willing audience, and that this wouldn’t affect them after this was all over.

“That’s right! And when I am King, I want my kingdom to run smoothly. I want to know that you, my subjects, are going to worship me. So! Sign your fealty over to me. Show your loyalty now, and when I take the throne, you will be rewarded and repaid dozens of times over. I will make sure to remember those who were on my side. But those who were not? I will not forget, and I will not forgive.” Crowley’s voice darkened at that, growing cold and harsh. He let the silence drag out for a moment, allowing the huddled villagers to imagine just exactly what he meant by that. He watched their faces closely. Most were still filled with fear, but some, he thought he detected anger. He wondered if he could tempt any of them towards outright wrath.

“But you can avoid that fate. Simply pledge your allegiance to me, and then we will let you go unharmed. All you have to do is swear to obey me and worship me, and we will leave you in peace, to finish your church service and go about your day.”

“We’ve already signed fealty. To King Arthur.” One man called out, inspired by either incredible bravery, or incredible stupidity, or perhaps a mix of the two. Crowley laughed, cruelly.

“King Arthur? He cannot protect you! Or, what’s worse, he does not care about you! What kind of king would leave his subjects so cruelly undefended?” He roared.

“They’re not undefended!” An unfamiliar voice behind him cried, and Crowley smiled, glad his face was concealed beneath a helmet. Ah, so the cavalry had arrived. Excellent. Now things were getting interesting. He turned to see two knights on horseback riding towards him. One, the speaker, he didn’t recognise. The other was clearly Aziraphale. Aziraphale seemed to be leading the charge towards him. Protecting his human, Crowley supposed, making sure that if any fight was to occur, it would be between the two otherworldly beings.

“He’s sent us, the Knights of the Round Table, to defend them from scourges like you.” The knight he didn’t know declared, and a wave of relief spread across the gathered villagers. Some of them even let out cheers, before the threatening look of Crowley’s men frightened them into silence.

“Black Knight, we order you and your men to surrender. Let these innocent people go.” Aziraphale said, his voice strong and confident. 

“The Knights of the Round Table. This is an honour. Unfortunately, you seem to be a little outnumbered.” Crowley said, his tone mocking, and he could sense both Aziraphale and his companion stiffening as they realised this. They must not have realised how many men Crowley had at his disposal. Either that, or they were simply so devoted, that the simple act of slandering the King had angered them so much they’d acted without thinking. Oh, Crowley hoped it was the latter, that would be hilarious.

“You’re a fool if you think it’s just the two of us. Our brothers are on their way, riding at full speed from Camelot as we speak!” The knight that was not Aziraphale said. It was a lie, Crowley could tell, but it was a good lie, said with authority. He wondered how many of his own men believed it. He glanced at them, and indeed, they looked nervous. Hm. Best not to call the bluff. Things would be more interesting that way.

“Oh, I’m sure they are. But how long will it take them to get here? Long enough for us to escape, at least.”

“Then forget about them. And forget about your swords for hire. Let’s even the playing field.” Aziraphale called out, and Crowley leaned forwards, intrigued.

“A duel, one on one, just you and me. If you lose, you will order your men to disband, and let these good people go.” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley paused. If this was some strategy of Aziraphale’s, he wasn’t sure how he was expected to respond. Saying yes when he was supposed to say no would certainly fuck things up.

“You are stalling, Sir Knight.” Crowley said, searching Aziraphale’s face for hints.

“Or are you just too craven to take me up on my offer?” Aziraphale taunted, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin. Aziraphale was getting into character too, and he loved it.

“I am not craven. I’m just smarter than you foolhardy two rushing in without thinking. Why should I fight you? What’s in it for me? What do I get if you lose?” Crowley asked, trying to keep the grin from his voice. He wanted to sound menacing, but it was coming out bordering flirtatious. Which… there would be time later to examine that.

“If I lose… If I lose then I will offer myself up as your prisoner, and allow you to take me alive, as your hostage.”

“Aziraphale, don’t.” The other knight gasped, horrified, but Aziraphale brushed him off, and kept going.

“With me as your hostage, you would be guaranteed an audience with the King. That is what you want, after all, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, making his offer sound as irresistible as possible. Crowley was incredibly grateful for that. If, after all this was over, he was still trying to lead his little troop into battle, he needed a good reason for agreeing to this, one that wouldn’t make them lose confidence in him. Crowley made a show of pretending to consider the offer, and then finally nodded.

“A duel it is to be then!” Crowley bellowed, before smirking, “Pity none of these good people is a blacksmith. I’m going to need some decent chains and manacles for after I’ve beaten you.”

He hadn’t meant it in any other way than as an adversary mocking his opponent, but Aziraphale seemed to take them to heart – a peculiar look flashed across his face at Crowley’s words. A high flush painted his cheeks, his brows furrowed and his jaw set, looking embarrassed, or perhaps disgusted, he wasn’t sure. Honestly, Crowley didn’t understand it. He had just been speaking as the Black Knight, addressing Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, not as himself addressing his friend Aziraphale. It was Aziraphale’s problem if he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and theatre.

Aziraphale leapt off of his horse, the movement swift and decisive. Aziraphale unclasped the broach that held his cloak pinned in place, and tossed it to one side, the cream coloured fabric rippling in the breeze as it fell to the ground.

“Enough talking. Draw your sword and face me.” Aziraphale ordered. His voice tinged with what seemed like very real anger. Shit. Crowley might have some apologising to do after this. Crowley didn’t want to hurt his friend any more than he wanted to become King of Camelot. It was all just an act, didn’t Aziraphale know that? Or maybe he did. Maybe Aziraphale was just a better actor than Crowley had known. He wasn’t sure.

Crowley dismounted. His movements were leisurely and deliberate, showing everyone the control he had over the situation. The Black Knight was not going to be rushed, not by anyone, even a knight of the Round Table. He glanced over his shoulder, and motioned to one of his lackeys, who took his stallion’s reins, and lead the beast out of the way, giving Crowley and Aziraphale more room to fight. Aziraphale’s companion did the same with his horse.

“Sir Aziraphale. Good luck. God is with you.” He called out to him. Crowley sensed that he didn’t much approve of this plan, but he wasn’t going to undermine Aziraphale’s authority in front of all these people.

“Thank you, Sir Percival. She always is.” Aziraphale replied, and the warmth in his voice made Crowley’s stomach twist. Angels are supposed to love and care for all humans, he reminded himself, and Aziraphale especially stuck to that doctrine. Besides, what did he care what Aziraphale felt about some random human? He didn’t care. Mostly it was the contrast that got to him. The bitter tone he’d taken with Crowley compared to this sugar sweet one. But again, maybe he was just playing his part very well, well enough to fool even Crowley.

Crowley swaggered over to Aziraphale, which, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to swagger whilst wearing a suit of armour, but it is quite a feat to pull off. They met in the middle of the clearing, making sure to share the sun so that neither of them had an unfair advantage. Aziraphale held his hand out, and Crowley grasped it, shaking once. This was the custom. First, a handshake, showing that they both agreed to the terms of the duel. Then they let go, stepped back, and drew their swords.

Crowley cracked his neck, and swung his sword, as a way to warm himself up for the fight ahead, cutting a figure of eight through the air, before taking up a fighting stance. Well, it was partly to warm up, and partly theatrics. He was putting on a show, after all.

Aziraphale, for his part, simply pulled the visor of his helmet down, covering his face and charged at him, sword aloft. It began.

Aziraphale swung first. Crowley deflected. Aziraphale swung again. Crowley redirected his blade and returned with his own attack. Swing, block, parry, duck. Aziraphale pushed forwards, forcing Crowley back. Aziraphale’s sword met his, the bite of steel on cold steel making Crowley’s heart pound. Crowley twisted, pushing Aziraphale’s sword down and away from him. He backed off, widening the space between them.

They sized each other up, looking for a place of weakness - the perfect opening to attack. Crowley was wondering what Aziraphale’s plan was, and was watching him closely, looking for any signs or hints Aziraphale might be giving him. They’d started fighting, and that was great, it was certainly a spectacle for the people to see. Now what? He supposed Aziraphale would let him know in due time. Until then, he simply had to commit to the role.

Crowley charged. Aziraphale ran to meet him. Crowley swung, and Aziraphale countered. Dodge, block, lunge, thrust. Aziraphale backpedalled, and Crowley gave chase.

He was actually starting to enjoy himself. Ever the peacock, he liked having the audience, and he loved the sound of their gasps as he and Aziraphale battled it out. It wasn’t just that, though. With the thrill of the adrenaline rushing through his body, he was starting to understand why humans did foolish things like compete in tournaments and jousts, risking their lives for no good reason. This exhilarated feeling was the reason. There was a delightful rhythm to what they were doing. It felt almost like a dance.

Their swords clashed, and Crowley grinned beneath his helmet. They both pushed and struggled, neither one able to throw the other off, but both unwilling to pull away. Crowley took advantage of the moment and leaned in close.

“What’s the plan, Angel? As fun as this is, I don’t want to be here all day.” Crowley whispered, barely audible.

Only Aziraphale with his angelic ears could hear him. With both their helmets down, they didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing their lips moving. And yet, it only seemed to annoy Aziraphale further. And that was when Crowley was certain Aziraphale was angry for real. He wasn’t pretending for anyone else’s benefit, because no one else could hear what he’d said.

“Fun?! Why are you even here? Is this because of what happened yesterday? I told you no, so you come out here and act like a child having a tantrum?” Aziraphale hissed back.

Crowley scoffed. Of course Aziraphale would think this was all about him. How anyone could be so self-important and, simultaneously, so utterly lacking in self-awareness was beyond Crowley. He was about to retort, but Aziraphale suddenly twisted, redirecting the force he was exerting, and Crowley’s sword with it. The tension between their blades was lost, and Aziraphale was able to barge his shoulder into Crowley, throwing him off balance. Crowley stumbled, but did not fall. With a tiny demonic miracle, he shielded their voices, allowing them to speak as loudly as they wanted without being overheard.

“No, of course not! It’s just part of my fermenting, spreading discontent. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Just steal their gold, make them see Arthur isn’t such a hot king, maybe get them to start rioting, or rebelling against him.” Crowley tried to explain, before throwing himself back into the fight. He swung, and Aziraphale bent backwards, the tip of Crowley’s sword brushing past his chest as he did, no more than a hair’s width away from him. Crowley swung back the other way, and this time, Aziraphale blocked it. Their swords locked again.

“Even if you didn’t hurt them Crowley, you must see that they’re terrified. This is a little far, even for you.” Aziraphale pleaded, seemingly not realising how much the words would sting. _Even for you_. Crowley snarled. Did Aziraphale really think so little of him?

“Oh, well, if you weren’t spreading such peace and tranquillity with your heavenly glow then I wouldn’t have to go to such lengths, would I?” Crowley lifted his foot up, planting it firmly against Aziraphale’s chest and pushed, throwing him off his balance and forcing him backwards. Aziraphale flailed as he fell, holding on tight to his sword. He landed on his arse, and the crowd gasped.

“So this _is_ about what happened yesterday! You’re trying to get me to agree to your ridiculous scheme.” Aziraphale spat, as he scrambled back to his feet. Stance wide, body lowered, he was ready for Crowley’s next attack. It didn’t come, though. They simply began to circle each other, keeping a safe distance between them as they spoke.

“It’s not ridiculous! We are cancelling each other out!” Crowley’s tone was that of an impatient and frustrated adult trying to explain something simple to a stubborn child who was refusing to understand. He didn’t care that it probably pissed Aziraphale off more. He pressed on. “The end result is the same! So, we could either be here, having this sword fight, or we could be at a nice tavern somewhere, drinking ale, and writing notes back to HQ telling them that we had the sword fight.”

“But that would be lying! I’m not having this discussion with you!” Aziraphale made a noise beneath the helmet, and Crowley was sure that if he could see him, he would see his nostrils flaring as he loudly exhaled.

“Too bad, Angel. You can’t walk away this time. Not without surrendering, anyway.” Crowley taunted. He knew he was making things worse. He knew he was poking a bear. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Well I will just have to beat you then.” Aziraphale said, resolve in his voice.

“Like you could!” Crowley crowed, a cruel kind of laughter pouring from his lips. Aziraphale got quiet beneath his helmet. Shit. Before he even started moving, Crowley knew he was in for it. He was rather glad the visor covered Aziraphale’s eyes, and he couldn’t see the way the angel was looking at him now. He braced himself for the worst.

Aziraphale charged with renewed vigour, catching up to Crowley and forcing him onto the defensive. This wasn’t a dance anymore. Any rhythm they had previously was lost. It was now a brutal barrage, and Crowley was barely keeping up.

Crowley was surprised by Aziraphale’s strength. Aziraphale was so soft. It was one of the things Crowley ~~loved~~ appreciated about him. He was soft, and gentle, not all hard edges and points like Crowley himself, and not unnatural perfection like the other angels. How was he also this incredible swordsman?

Suddenly, Crowley realised. The gate of Eden. Aziraphale’s flaming sword. This was what Aziraphale had _literally been made for_. Well, fuck. Still, never let it be said that Crowley backed down from a challenge. Aziraphale seemed to be stronger than him, and a better swordsman to boot. But Crowley was faster and had better stamina. If he just kept moving, he could tire Aziraphale out.

He ducked and weaved, evading Aziraphale’s blows, not wasting energy on trying to block them. Crowley moved back as Aziraphale moved forwards, teasing the principality, making him work just to keep Crowley within reach. He could hear the crowd (technically still his hostages) cheer as Aziraphale chased him down. He was starting to resent them.

When he saw an opening, he struck. In and out, quick, like a viper. Stab, retreat, duck, dodge. He felt a stinging pain across his arm when he wasn’t fast enough, and Aziraphale’s sword caught him, piercing his chain mail. An easy enough wound to heal with his demonic magic, but still. Aziraphale had actually cut him. A strange thrill raced up his spine. Crowley decided to chalk it up to adrenaline.

He ducked under Aziraphale’s arms as he swung, circling Aziraphale, making him spin to keep Crowley in his sights. Another blow came, and he dove under his arms once again, this time landing directly behind Aziraphale. Once behind him, he threw a particularly nasty and cheap shot, swinging his sword two-handed, hard, at Aziraphale’s helmet. Aziraphale cried out and lurched away, disorientated. Crowley could only imagine the ringing in Aziraphale’s ears as the metal bounced against his head. Aziraphale turned to face him, far too quickly to have properly recovered, and lunged, thrusting his sword straight at Crowley. Crowley side-stepped, moving faster than a human being would have been able to. A good thing, too, as otherwise, he would have been impaled.

Overbalanced, Aziraphale was sent stumbling through the space Crowley had previously occupied. He landed on his knees, losing his grip on his sword as he threw his hands out to catch himself. Crowley marched over to him, and planted a foot firmly on his back, knocking him down. The crowd let out a horrified gasp, and even some boos. 

“Ready to surrender?” Crowley asked, his voice sounding as smug as he felt. Aziraphale let out a growl, no doubt annoyed at being trapped like this. He almost wished Aziraphale wasn’t wearing his helmet, as it would be nice to see his face, to watch him struggle before he admitted defeat.

Crowley’s train of thought was interrupted by Aziraphale’s sudden movement. He surged upwards, his elbow swung behind him as he twisted, knocking Crowley’s foot off of him, and sending him hurtling backwards. Aziraphale clambered back up to his feet and seized his sword up off of the ground, falling into an en garde position.

“Never.” He proclaimed, and Crowley loved the defiance in his voice. Another thrill ran through his spine, and he pushed it to the side. He would deal with that later. At that moment, he had to focus, throw his all in.

Aziraphale roared, charging again, and Crowley propelled himself backwards, doing all he could to stay out of range of the angry angel and the sharp blade he was wielding. The one that had already tasted his flesh. He found himself at the edge of the little clearing they had for themselves, his back against a wall of one of the feeble wooden shacks that passed for a building. Aziraphale gained on him, and brought his sword down, hard. Crowley evaded, just at the last second. Aziraphale’s sword instead embedded into one of the wooden planks of the shack’s wall. Aziraphale let out a groan of frustration, and Crowley wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard him swear.

“Watch out!” One of Crowley’s hostages yelled, as if he was watching a damned pantomime. Aziraphale let go of his hilt and turned just in time to see Crowley’s sword coming for him. Aziraphale threw himself out of the way, rolling when he hit the ground. Crowley gave chase. Aziraphale pushed himself up from the ground and began to run. How delightful. The tables had been turned.

Crowley grinned as he pursued the angel. To keep him running, or to force him to stop and fight without a sword? Both could be equally entertaining. He decided on the latter. Crowley raced ahead, darting around him, cutting Aziraphale off.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” He smirked, delighting in this game of cat and mouse.

Aziraphale backed away, and Crowley followed. He swung, and Aziraphale ducked. He swung again, and this time, Aziraphale grabbed his wrist. His grip was tight, and Crowley couldn’t seem to escape it. In one fluid movement, Aziraphale’s foot slid forwards, and holding tight onto Crowley’s arm, he twisted at the waist, dragging the demon’s arm to the side and ramming his shoulder into Crowley’s chest. Crowley cried out as his sword was wrenched from his hand, (and potentially so too his arm from it’s socket, he wasn’t entirely sure). Grabbing Crowley’s arm with his other hand, Aziraphale bent double, and sent Crowley flying over him. The crowd cheered. He landed on his back, all the air forced from his body.

Now holding Crowley’s sword, Aziraphale stood over him, the tip of the blade pointed at his chest. Crowley positively squirmed at the sight of it. He recognised this feeling, he’d felt it before many times, and he’d even felt it about Aziraphale before, but never, not once, had he ever felt it as a result of a _sword being pointed at him_. What the Heaven was wrong with him?

“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, a smile playing on his voice, and Crowley damn near melted. Aziraphale was sure he’d won, and part of Crowley wanted to relent, to give him his victory. It would make him so happy, after all. The other part of Crowley, the part fuelled purely by spite, said no way in Hell.

Aziraphale was beginning to up the theatrics, twirling Crowley’s sword in his hands just for show. The crowd grew louder in their appreciation of him, and Aziraphale looked up at them, distracted. A tiny miracle removed the throbbing pain from his fighting arm. Then, Crowley took advantage of Aziraphale’s lapse in concentration, and rolled away. Clambering to his feet, he raced back over to the wall of the shack, where Aziraphale’s sword was still embedded. He grasped at the hilt, and leaned back, tugging as hard as he could. The sword came free, sending chunks of wood and splinters flying into the air.

He turned, to see Aziraphale chasing towards him. Aziraphale seemed slower now, though. That throw had taken a lot of energy, and Aziraphale hadn’t anticipated that the fight would continue after he’d done it. He was tired, and now Crowley could strike. Charging to meet Aziraphale, Crowley swung. Thrust, chop, feint, stab. Some of his blows Aziraphale blocked or dodged, but several of them landed, not piercing his armour, but forcing the angel back, sending him reeling. Aziraphale’s attacks in response were slow and clumsy, easy for Crowley to avoid. Aziraphale groaned in frustration as Crowley danced away from his blows. He was done, Crowley was sure.


	5. The Arrangement (Part 3)

Crowley was right. Aziraphale was far too aware of how heavy his armour was, how much he was sweating beneath it and how out of breath he was. This might have been what Aziraphale had been meant for all along, but at his heart, he didn’t like conflict. He’d gone without practise for _centuries_ , and only started training again when he’d received instructions from Heaven to pose as a knight.

Even with all the training he’d been doing in the past few months, all the exercise he’d been putting his body through, he still wasn’t back up to the level he had been when God had first given him the flaming sword. And all the extra padding he was carrying with him now hadn’t helped at all. Crowley was wearing him down. Every time their swords struck, his arms ached. His heart pounded in his chest, he tasted blood, and his lungs burned. He didn’t need to breathe, strictly speaking, but he’d been doing it for a long time, and his body was used to it by now. It complained when he didn’t.

“Okay, can we just … pause?” Aziraphale asked, barely able to get the sentence out. It was embarrassing, and he hated having to ask, but he just couldn’t keep going. He steeled himself for Crowley’s voice taking a mocking tone and saying no, telling him to surrender instead, but it didn’t come.

“Oh, fine.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and everything around them froze, as if time itself was standing still. The people - those huddled together watching with fear and trepidation, the Black Knight’s lackeys, and Sir Percival - were all completely motionless, as if they’d been turned to stone. Even one man who was in the middle of sneezing didn’t move, he simply remained just as he’d been the instant Crowley had snapped his fingers, mouth open, eyes screwed close, droplets of spit and mucus suspended in mid-air as they’d been caught half-way through being propelled from his mouth.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale sighed, stabbing the blade of his sword down into the soft dirt, leaving it there, erect, waiting to be picked up when they were ready to resume fighting. In the meantime, he shucked his helmet, and began to suck in deep gulps of air. The cold breeze against his face was delicious after what now seemed like an eternity of having his own body heat trapped and reflected back at him inside the helmet. His legs and feet sensed that the rest of his body was getting some relief and cried out for their turn too. He groaned, and sat down, his legs splayed out in front of him, his hands behind him, propping him up, and his head hanging back, his eyes closed.

“Don’t thank me. Can’t imagine my lot would be too happy about this, if they found out.” Crowley said, pulling off his helmet, holding it under one arm and shaking his hair out over his shoulders. Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and he was relieved to see that Crowley was just as red in the face as he was. There was a sheen of sweat across his forehead, and locks of his hair were soaked and stuck to his skin. At least he wasn’t the only one who felt that this was hard work.

“Am I to take it that since you paused, you don’t actually want to beat me? It seems awfully sporting of you to allow me to catch my breath if you’re determined to win.” Aziraphale asked, carefully. He had a sense that something he’d said earlier had offended Crowley, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but he didn’t want to repeat the mistake. On his part, he’d forgiven Crowley for calling the fight fun. He felt that it would be hypocritical for him to keep holding on to that particular grudge, considering how he’d started to enjoy it himself.

He’d also forgiven him for simply being there. He was only doing what Hell told him to do, after all. He couldn’t very well get angry at Crowley for trying to avoid work one day, and then get angry at him for doing his job the next day.

“I mean, I could, but, I don’t particularly want to. If I actually beat you and captured you, my lot would expect me to either discorporate you, or bring you back to Hell for them to play with.” Crowley said, as if it was obvious.

“Bring me back to Hell?” Aziraphale exclaimed, his eyes wide, sounding worried. Of course, he wasn’t scared of Crowley. In all his thousands of years of knowing Crowley, it had never, not even once, occurred to Aziraphale to be scared of him, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. His alarm came from learning what Hell expected of Crowley.

He had always thought that even Hell would have standards, some sort of rules, or laws, and that those rules would apply to angelic beings as well. Even though the two species were at war, there was a certain amount of respect and decency that should be afforded. But apparently not, he was finding out. The insinuation of the words ‘for them to play with’ especially unnerved him, and he didn’t particularly want to know if Crowley had any specific games in mind. Learning this also reinforced just how much danger Crowley would be in if his fellow demons ever found out what he was up to.

“Oh, relax, will you, Angel?” Crowley must have misinterpreted Aziraphale’s words, as he sounded incredibly hurt by them, as much as he tried to mask that hurt with anger. “I wouldn’t do that. And I’m not going to discorporate you, either.”

“No, my dear boy, I know, that goes without saying. It’s not you at all. You’re much too good to do that, I know.” Aziraphale rushed to correct the misunderstanding. Crowley’s expression seemed to soften, and though he would never admit to it, and always protest against it, Aziraphale thought Crowley rather liked hearing the angel say nice things about him.

“Oh, whatever. The point is, downstairs would be pissed off that I’d missed the chance. And, your lot would be annoyed at you too, I bet. Even if I only kept you as a hostage until the Black Knight got into Camelot and challenged Arthur to a duel, I can’t imagine it would look good for you, being the prisoner of a demon, so that option’s out too. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.” Crowley spoke with an overly casual nature, trying to pretend that this was no big deal.

It was a big deal, though. He was looking out for Aziraphale, against a danger that Aziraphale hadn’t even considered yet. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry about what the other angels would say if he lost this fight, or got taken prisoner. And yet Crowley had thought of it, and he was protecting Aziraphale, at risk to himself. Aziraphale felt his heart glow. Crowley was often rude, he often mocked Aziraphale, not to mention how he tormented him mercilessly with his tempting. It was nice to be reminded that underneath all the snide remarks, Crowley truly did care about him, and that the teasing wasn’t mean-spirited, it was done from a place of friendship.

“Oh. Well. That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, and beamed, wide and earnest. Crowley met his smile with an exaggerated eye role, but a second later, Aziraphale thought that he caught him looking pleased, even if the look vanished quickly.

“And I suppose, if you were to throw the fight, and let me win, we’d have the opposite problem. So, what do we do?” Aziraphale asked, frowning as he tried to think of a way out of this conundrum.

Crowley hummed, thinking. He ran a hand through his auburn hair, and threw his head back, looking to the sky as if for guidance, or inspiration. His nose scrunched up, and golden eyes narrowed. Cute, Aziraphale thought. He didn’t bother pushing that one out of his mind. It was the truth, whether inspired by demonic temptation or not.

“Well…” Crowley finally said, dragging out the word. “Well, I suppose, we’re both pretending to be humans. If either of us received a mortal wound that would kill a human, but that didn’t actually discorporate us, we would have to pretend to die, wouldn’t we, to keep up the pretence?” Crowley asked, slowly, as he put the idea together.

Aziraphale considered it. He couldn’t seem to find any flaw in Crowley’s logic. They weren’t allowed to reveal themselves to be supernatural beings, not without their respective head offices’ permission, and lots and lots of paperwork. If angels went round on Earth revealing themselves to be angels all willy-nilly, then demons would do the same. The fight that their two sides fought was currently being done in secret. Temptations here, and angelic guidance there. If they revealed themselves, then the other side would step out from behind the shadows, and things would escalate. It would become an all-out war, the battlefield of which would be the Earth. Neither side wanted that, Aziraphale was sure. Therefore, it was a more crucial rule to keep up the façade of being human than it was to stick to their assignments.

Crowley always managed to find these work-arounds, he was like a damn lawyer that way, following the rules to the letter, but not to the spirit. Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to chastise the demon, though, since his knack for doing so was currently getting them out of a scrape.

“I suppose HQ couldn’t reprimand either of us for that. We have to act as humans, and if humans would die in this situation then we would have to pretend to do so.” Aziraphale agreed, and he saw a grin flash across Crowley’s face. “Alright. So, which of us should pretend to die?”

“I think both of us. Cancel each other out. You stab me, I stab you, we both keel over. The boys I’ve got doing my bidding bugger off, and your lad Percy goes back to Camelot, tells Arthur what happened, he’s a bit more on edge. You defended the village, put some good out into the world, and I terrified a whole village, and put some evil out into the world. Both of us did our jobs. And now we just need to make a graceful exeunt.” Crowley said, and the way he phrased it made it sound so reasonable, as if the way they were going to do things was the correct way to do things, much more sensible than the original plan.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and wiped away a fresh layer of sweat from his brow. He was deeply conflicted. Agreeing to Crowley’s plan would mean lying to Heaven. It would be an act of betrayal - a tiny betrayal, but still a betrayal. But then, what choice did he have? If he insisted that he wouldn’t cooperate, and forced Crowley to continue fighting him, he would lose. And that would be worse for Heaven, wouldn’t it? Having one of their angels shackled to a demon, even for a short period of time, would be an embarrassment for them. It would take a long time for them to live that down.

Not only that, but if he was captured, he would have failed at his task. Crowley would go on to duel King Arthur, and probably kill him. Camelot would fall, and chaos would descend upon the region. He couldn’t let that happen. Not when Crowley was so eager to just pack up and go home anyway. A dent in his own honour would be a small price to pay to ensure that all things good and righteous continued to thrive in these lands. Aziraphale sighed and nodded.

“Alright, I suppose that makes sense. Do we both die simultaneously?”

“Nah, that’d be a bit weird. Um, I die here, that way you can make sure my guys really do leave. And then you go back to the castle and have weepy last words on a death bed with Percy over there holding your hand. We both use magic to make the humans see what we want them to see, and then we sneak away. Meet back in the forest tomorrow night, make sure it all went to plan and all the loose ends are wrapped up? And then we can go drink.”

“You really are disturbingly quick at coming up with these schemes. Yes, that sounds fine.”

“I’m a demon. It’s what I do.” Crowley grinned, revealing his sharp white teeth, his golden eyes sparkling. Aziraphale looked away sharply, feeling as though he’d been staring at the sun.

“You ready to keep going?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, give me another minute. Oh, next time I’m going undercover as a doctor, or a scholar… Oh, I don’t know, a career that’s more dignified and doesn’t leave me so out of breath.”

“You look good in the armour, if that’s any consolation.” Crowley offered.

“Oh, give off, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, exhausted. He didn’t want to play these games right now.

“I was being serious.” Crowley said, quietly. Aziraphale looked up and searched his face. He couldn’t see any sign of insincerity there. Well. That was certainly something. He decided not to reply. Instead he pushed himself to his feet.

“Well, we’d better make this look convincing.” Aziraphale said, putting his helmet back on, and pulling his sword from the dirt. He made sure to stand in the exact position he’d been standing when Crowley had snapped his fingers. Crowley tied his hair back up and pulled his own helmet back on.

“We can make it quick. Do what you did before, disarm me and knock me to the ground. I’ll produce a hidden dagger from somewhere and stab it at your stomach. Huge dramatic twist; it’ll make for a better story. I won’t actually touch you, just get close enough to make the humans think I did. I’ll make some blood appear. You act hurt but slit my throat before I can get away. Same deal, just stab your sword into the ground right next to my neck, you magic some blood onto me, I play dead.”

“This feels a bit risky, Crowley. I mean, what if I accidentally hurt you? Really, hurt you, I mean. What if you move and I miss?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly growing nervous. His nervousness seemed a bit silly. After all, they’d just been fighting without planning it out beforehand, and hadn’t managed to hurt each other any more than was necessary. But now, after having paused, and allowed the adrenaline to subside, it suddenly felt impossible. Like a ridiculous risk they shouldn’t take.

“It will be fine, Angel. You won’t hurt me. I promise, I won’t move. We’ve got this.” Crowley said, oozing confidence, putting Aziraphale at ease. Aziraphale smiled. He realised how much trust this must require on Crowley’s part, and he steeled himself. He wouldn’t let Crowley down.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Crowley snapped his fingers again, and the world around them came back alive. The explosion of noise startled Crowley – he hadn’t realised just how quiet it had been until suddenly it wasn’t anymore. The people continued cheering and roaring. One man finished his sneeze. Crowley set off running towards Aziraphale, and Aziraphale charged to meet him, his breath caught, and his energy replenished. Aziraphale swung, and Crowley dodged, before returning the blow. Aziraphale deflected, and Crowley was glad to see his strength had returned to him. That wasn’t the only thing that had returned. Now that they were on the same side again, the fun was back, as was the sense of rhythm they built up.

“Go for my head, I’ll duck. Then you jump.” Crowley suggested. Aziraphale obeyed, stepping forwards and swinging horizontally at Crowley’s head, as if to decapitate. Crowley ducked down, and as he did, he swung for Aziraphale’s feet. Aziraphale jumped over his blade, and by the time he’d landed, Crowley had popped back up. Swing, thrust, parry. Their swords locked again, and Crowley let Aziraphale take the lead.

“I’m going to punch you.” Aziraphale warned, giving the demon a second to brace himself, before striking at Crowley’s stomach with his free hand.

There were no metal plates there, only chain mail. Crowley clutched at his stomach and stumbled backwards. Aziraphale used the point of contact between their swords to push Crowley, taking advantage of his unsteady stance and forcing him over. Crowley tripped, and found himself on his back, his sword still safely in his hand. Aziraphale advanced on him, and Crowley scrabbled ungracefully in the dirt, his feet propelling him backwards. Aziraphale effortlessly outpaced him and brought his sword down on Crowley. Crowley lifted his sword up to defend himself, and the brunt force of the two swords meeting knocked him flat onto his back.

Aziraphale bore down on him, using all of his strength and body weight. Both their swords slowly inched closer and closer to Crowley’s throat, as Crowley’s arms struggled to keep them aloft. He wasn’t pretending. He really was struggling. If Aziraphale kept pushing down, Crowley wouldn’t be able to throw him off. A strange heat began to burn inside him at the thought of it. Crowley was trapped, on his back, at Aziraphale’s mercy, and he couldn’t help but realise that there was nowhere else he would rather be. A horrifying realisation for a demon, to be sure.

“Surrender!” Aziraphale commanded. He had lifted the enchantment off their voices so that everyone gathered could hear him too. Sir Percival let out a whoop of joy and began to applaud.

“I surrender.” Crowley said, assuming that would be that. But Aziraphale had something else in mind.

“I don’t think all these good people heard you, Black Knight. Care to say it again?” Aziraphale taunted him. A ripple of laughter rolled around the clearing, and Crowley’s cheeks burned.

“I surrender. You have beaten me, Sir Knight.” He all but shouted. Aziraphale pulled backwards, removing his sword from Crowley’s face, and resting it on his chest plate instead. Crowley threw his own to one side, relinquishing his grasp on it as a show of good faith.

“I accept your surrender. You’ll be coming back to Camelot with me, as my prisoner. What was that you were saying earlier, about needing some decent chains?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley’s heart leapt at the words, the burning feeling inside him intensifying. What Aziraphale was saying was humiliating, but at the same time, strangely intoxicating. The idea of Aziraphale having that sort of power over him, having him in chains, was making him tremble. He’d never felt anything like it before, and, fuck, he was almost tempted to call off the whole plan, just to let Aziraphale take him. 

He couldn’t though. Of course, there was Hell, and the tremendous trouble he would be in if he did. But mostly he was thinking about Aziraphale. He couldn’t imagine what Aziraphale would think if he did, if he refused to play his part and just let the angel drag him back to Camelot. He’d be confused at first, but he’d be forced to play along, because that would be what everyone expected him to do. And then, once he figured it out… Crowley couldn’t imagine the disgusted look on Aziraphale’s face if he found out the demon was enjoying this. He was pretty disgusted with himself, in all honesty.

So, he shoved it all to one side of his mind, to unpack later, and when Aziraphale sheaved his sword, and bent down to haul Crowley to his feet, Crowley did his job. He slid his hand up the side of his body, and magically summoned a tiny dagger simultaneously, making it look to any observer like he had simply pulled it from some kind of hidden compartment in his armour. He brandished it, making sure at least one person saw him, and when he heard a scream, he lunged. The two of them were pressed close enough together that no one could see the deception. He held the knife between them, and carefully pierced Aziraphale’s chainmail with it, to create the appearance of a stabbing.

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand press against his stomach, and he let out a strangled cry. Crowley couldn’t see his face, but based on the reaction of the crowd, it was a wonderful performance. With a thought, blood appeared, and began to flow, dripping down the front of Aziraphale’s armour. Crowley pulled away, making sure to coat some of the blood onto the blade of his dagger as he did. Aziraphale let go of Crowley, and looked down at his own stomach, with shock. Damn. Aziraphale could act, when he needed to. Rage flashed across his face, and with an unsteady hand, he unsheathed his sword. He lifted it high above his head, then brought it down sharply, just to the left of Crowley’s neck. With a demonic miracle, Crowley ensured that anyone who had sharp enough eyes to see the truth quickly had their memories altered. Aziraphale pulled his sword up, and Crowley jerked at the quote-unquote removal of the sword from his body. He supposed a death like that would be instantaneous, so he let his limbs go limp, and his head flop to the side, as the fake wound on his neck began to spurt red like a real wound would. 

“You!” He heard Aziraphale yell. Aziraphale was addressing the Black Knight’s followers. “Your master is dead. He broke the Knights Code and he died with dishonour. If you have any honour left in your own bodies, you will disband, and leave this land now. Or, if you wish to try your luck against the Knights of the Round Table, I believe they will be arriving soon.”

Crowley suddenly found he could hear fanfare in the distance. The ground pounded and shook with the hoof beats of twenty, thirty, maybe forty horses, all with riders who yelled as they approached, ready to fight. But that didn’t make any sense. Aziraphale hadn’t called for back-up, so how had the other knights known to come? Oh. Oh, Aziraphale, you sly angel. Miracling up the sound of an approaching fleet was quite the stroke of genius.

It worked. All the men Crowley had hired as the Black Knight fled, grabbing their own horses and racing away at full speed. The villagers they’d taken as hostages, now free, made their way over to Aziraphale to thank him. Crowley disappeared in all the commotion. No one saw, and when they noticed his body was gone, they would assume the Black Knight’s lackeys had taken their master’s body with them.

The next night, Crowley stood in the moonlit clearing that they had first discovered each other in, waiting for Aziraphale to arrive. He was dressed like the sort of person you would ignore – not rich enough to be worth robbing, not poor enough to bully, or suspect of robbing you - and he wrapped a dark brown cloak around himself, trying to keep the nights’ chill out.

Eventually, a familiar-looking shape dressed all in cream and beige walked towards him, the moonlight catching his blonde hair and illuminating it, so it shined like a fluffy halo. Crowley smiled.

“Aziraphale. You made it!” Crowley greeted him as he approached.

“Hello, my dear boy.” Aziraphale replied, not exactly looking happy. Crowley’s stomach twisted at the sight of him looking like that.

“What happened? Are we in the clear?” Crowley asked, breathless.

“I think so. Gabriel said that I did the best I could, considering I was working against a demon. And, on the human side of things, after Percival took me back to the castle, King Arthur sent out a much larger search team to chase away your men. They’re gone, and they won’t be coming back any time soon.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well that’s great! Downstairs are a bit annoyed that the Black Knight had to die, they liked that character, but considering I wiped out Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, they figure it’s even. Which, is what I said, right? It all worked out for the best.”

“I don’t know if I’d say for the best.” Aziraphale said, a little snottily.

“Why, what went wrong?”

“Well, I didn’t enjoy having to pretend to die surrounded by people who I rather liked. Some of them cried, Crowley, and I felt awful. I wanted to sit up and say, “it’s alright, I’m not dead.” But obviously, I couldn’t. It was terrible. And what came next was even worse.” Aziraphale sounded genuinely pained, and Crowley wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how.

“What came next?” He asked, frowning.

“What always comes next when a human dies. They buried me, Crowley.” Aziraphale snapped.

“They what?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised, his mouth quirking. He was sure he must have misheard, it couldn’t have possibly been what he thought he’d said.

“They buried me. They held a funeral for me and buried me.” Aziraphale repeated, annoyance plain on his face.

“Oh. Oh no.” Crowley said, covering his mouth with his hand and trying not to laugh. Aziraphale glared, and at the sight of the glare, Crowley lost it. He couldn’t help himself, he cackled, annoying Aziraphale even more.

“It’s not funny, Crowley! I had to wait in that damn coffin for hours before I could safely disappear out of it without anyone noticing me. It was dark, and very cramped, and it smelled terrible, and I had an itch on my nose that I couldn’t scratch because my arms were trapped by my sides, and I couldn’t eat all day.” Aziraphale whined, and Crowley was sure he was a mere moment away from stamping his foot. Crowley caught his breath and wiped the smile from his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it was. But you know what? Spending almost twelve hours in a coffin was somehow the best case scenario here. I can’t imagine what would have happened if either Heaven or Hell had found out what we were up to. And it’s exactly why this is a one time thing, Crowley. Do you understand? We are never doing this again. It’s too risky. If we ever find each other on opposing sides, we’ll have to just follow the rules and face each other.” Aziraphale spoke with passion, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale was right on all accounts. It could have gone so badly. It didn’t, though, and considering they’d survived on a plan they came up with on the fly, maybe if they’d time to think about it, it could have gone even better. He kept that thought to himself though. He didn’t want to have Aziraphale yell at him when he was already so worked up.

“Listen, I know what will cheer you up. There’s a tavern about a half mile from here. They serve food, and they do a pretty good roast pheasant. It comes with carrots and parsnips, and all the beer you can drink. Sound good?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale’s expression softened, his annoyance quickly disappearing at the mention of food, and, so Crowley hoped, of spending the evening together.

“Yes. It sounds perfect. Let’s go.” He smiled. Crowley offered Aziraphale his arm, and Aziraphale took it. In the blink of an eye, they both disappeared.


	6. The Aftermath, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley lets his guard down around Aziraphale, and regrets it. Aziraphale is still oblivious. Warning, some mild angst ahead!

Hours later, they had eaten their roasted pheasant, and were still at the tavern. When they first arrived, they’d discovered that the tavern also rented rooms out for the night, and there was one room left available. They had decided they would take it, and, seeing as they were staying the night, might as well make themselves comfortable.

Since then, they’d consumed four bottles of wine, and several tankards of beer between them. They were just at the point where they had begun to feel agreeably affected by the alcohol. Crowley wasn’t drunk, or least, so he thought, but his cheeks felt warm, and the conversation flowed freely and easily. There was laughter in the air. Aziraphale was positively radiating happiness, and the sight of it made something inside Crowley’s chest flutter. It was an odd feeling, but not an unpleasant one.

“Humans are ridiculous. But you know, this, _this_ is one of the things they’ve gotten right.” Crowley declared, lifting up his cup for emphasis, his vigour causing the wine to slosh over the side and down his hand. Not wanting to waste a drop, he licked his hand clean, collecting the deep red droplets on his forked tongue.

“Oh, Crowley, would you just use a napkin?” Aziraphale asked, his exasperation at his companion’s lack of table manners apparently causing him to turn red. Ridiculous angel, always so prim and proper. No one else seemed to care. Crowley was about to tell him so, but Aziraphale carried on speaking.

“And, yes, it’s good, but I don’t think it really counts as a human invention. It is by the grace of the Almighty that yeast turns sugar into alcohol, so I think she should get credit.” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley considered this for a second, before shaking his head.

“Okay, yeah, but, no, see, you’re forgetting, it’s the humans who looked at, you know, what’s esssssentially- “Crowley cleared his throat, and tried again, but he couldn’t contain the snakeish hiss any better than he could the first time. “Esssssentially rotten food, and thought, that looks good, I’ll try that. Even if it was an accident the very first time, they still found out that it makes ‘em drunk, and they’re like yeah, this is great, which, they’re right, it is. But they can’t even sober up when they want to. And they get hangovers! And then, you know, they find out, oh if we drink too much of this, we can actually die. And people do. And they keep drinkin’ it, even knowing it could kill ‘em! Because they think it’s worth it, they’re willing to risk death for a good time. That’s humans. That’s all humans, nothing to do with God. Ridiculous, beautiful basssstards, the lot of ‘em. Fantastic creatures.” 

That was when Crowley realised that he was quite a bit drunker than he’d thought he was. He never gushed like this over anything except when he was drunk. He usually spoke about humans with vague distain, as was expected of him as a demon. When he was drunk, though, he couldn’t help but reveal his true feelings. Humans fascinated him, and as much as he liked to make their lives difficult, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t, deep down, love all their weird quirks, and all the things they did that were so antithetical to what God had intended when She had created them.

Aziraphale smiled at him with such tenderness, his cheeks rosy and his eyes twinkling. He clearly liked it when Crowley let his guard down and showed his more mushy, less demonic side. Aziraphale was convinced that deep down he was a nice person, and ugh, just _thinking_ those words made Crowley gag. Aziraphale had been convinced of it ever since the Arc, though over the years he’d learned not to voice that opinion of his. That didn’t matter though. It didn’t matter if he was saying it, Crowley could tell he was thinking it.

“Don’t say it.” Crowley warned.

“I’m not saying anything!” Aziraphale said, the tone of his voice making it quite apparent that he knew exactly what Crowley was talking about. Aziraphale propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands as he gazed at Crowley, that smile and those soft eyes not leaving Crowley for a second.

“Well you don’t need to, you’re saying it with your face!” Crowley protested. He bared his teeth, almost fangs, really, at Aziraphale and hissed. The action was supposed to be threatening, but Aziraphale didn’t look the least bit afraid of him. Insulting, quite frankly. Instead of cowering, or quivering, or anything of the sort, Aziraphale laughed. To his credit, he did manage to wrestle the offending expression off of his face and replace it with something more neutral.

“Is this better?” Aziraphale asked, still chuckling. Crowley threw him a glare with no real malice behind it. He was in too good a mood to let it bother him that much. Yes, he hated it when Aziraphale called him, or even thought him, nice. But it was equally true that Aziraphale smiling at him like that made his stomach squirm with happiness. The latter more than made up for the former.

“Yes. You are forgiven, just don’t do it again.”

“I was there, you know, when they first discovered it.” Aziraphale said, before noting the confused look on Crowley’s face. “Alcohol, I mean.”

“You were not!” Crowley crowed, letting out a hoot of laughter.

“I was! Oh, poor Adam, he was in such a state. I brought him some food to try and sober him up, and he was so grateful he started positively bawling. And Eve was no help whatsoever, in fact, she was almost just as bad. She just sat there petting my wings, kissing me and calling me beautiful. She even tried to put flowers in my hair.”

“She kissed you?” Crowley cried, louder than he meant to, startling Aziraphale. He shifted in his seat, unhooking his foot from the arm of the chair and sitting upright. Some emotion he couldn’t name sizzled hot in his stomach.

_Fucking Eve. Who did she think she was? Aziraphale, I think you’re beautiful too. Let me kiss you and put flowers in your hair._

Wait.

What?

“Oh, well, just my wings. She was quite taken with them.” Aziraphale explained, and relief flooded through Crowley, throwing a bucket of cold water over the hot sizzling in his stomach. He let out a breath, and smiled, before he noticed the look on Aziraphale’s face. Fuck, he must have thought Crowley’s reaction was weird. Crowley tried to reign it in, play it cool.

“Oh, fair. I’m just surprised I didn’t see that.” Crowley said, adding a shrug, as if he couldn’t care less. He did care, though. Why did he care? Why had he reacted like that? Fuck, he needed more alcohol. He drained his cup in a single gulp, and then refilled it, finishing off what was left of the bottle.

“Well that was before you got involved, Crowley, dear, when they were still pure and innocent.” Aziraphale said. Crowley shook his head, trying to clear those confusing thoughts out of his mind. When he found that that didn’t work, he carefully tiptoed around them, trying not to disturb them further, until he found himself back in safe territory.

“Aziraphale, I don’t think it’s holy innocence you’re desssscribing, I think you’re just desssscribing any drunk girl. That’s one thing that didn’t change after the apple. If you got the waitress drunk tonight and showed her your wings, I think she’d have the same reaction.”

“I think you’re right. Best not, though. I’d definitely get into trouble for that.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to push your luck after the past few days. Bad enough that we’re sharing a room.” Crowley pointed out. He wasn’t trying to tease Aziraphale. It wasn’t like anything untoward was going to happen in that room, not when they were in separate beds.

“Well they’re not going to find out about that, if I can help it. It’s not like they watch me all the time. There is a degree of trust, which, is why our scheme, for want of a better word, worked at all.”

“Mm. You know, as far as village raids go, it was a pretty decent one. Not in terms of success, but, if we were rating them based on the enjoyment of everyone involved. I think those folks were pretty lucky, actually. I mean, they didn’t have to sit through a whole church service, for one thing.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalised. Crowley grinned, Aziraphale’s reaction encouraging him to keep going.

“And, you know, maybe it started off as a hostage situation, but by the end of it, they had front row seats to a world class sporting event. You know, some people would pay a lot of money for entertainment like that, and they got it for free.” Crowley didn’t believe a word of what he was saying, but he delighted in teasing Aziraphale. It was working, too. Aziraphale was so easy to mess with.

“No, stop that, you fiend! Don’t you pretend something bad you did was actually good. It was bad, Crowley. You bad, foul creature.” Aziraphale said, in the same tone you would use to scold a naughty cat. He picked up the wine bottle, and went to pour himself a glass, before letting out a yell of dismay to find it empty.

“Oh and you finished the wine, too. Downright monstrous.”

“Do you want me to go get another?” Crowley offered, already halfway out of his seat, hovering there as he waited for Aziraphale to make up his mind.

“Mm. No, we shouldn’t, we’ve already had quite a bit. Maybe we should just head upstairs and settle in for the night. Of course, you’re under no obligation to join me. If you want to stay down here and drink some more, feel free, just make sure you’re quiet when you come up.”

“No, if you’re going, I’ll go with you. I want to make sure I get the best bed.” Crowley said, pushing his chair back, and getting to his feet. Aziraphale laughed and shook his head.

“I have to imagine they’re going to be identical, Crowley.”

Aziraphale unlocked the door to the room they’d be sharing for the night. He took three steps into the room, and then stopped. Oh. Oh no.

“What’s up?” Crowley asked from the doorway, Aziraphale’s body blocking his view of the room, so he couldn’t see the problem Aziraphale had already spotted. The problem being that there was only one bed. Aziraphale would have simply miracled another one into existence, but there was no space for it. The room was absolutely tiny, with barely enough room for the furniture that was already there - one bed, a small table, and a chest of drawers. Aziraphale walked over to the table, and placed the candle he was holding down atop it, moving out of Crowley’s way and letting him in. 

“Ah.” Crowley said, his voice full of understanding. Understanding, and perhaps insinuation. Or was Aziraphale reading into that? Crowley shut the door behind him, and Aziraphale heard the latch click into place. Suddenly the room felt even smaller than it had before.

“Well, the good news is, there won’t be an argument over who gets which bed.” Aziraphale said cheerily, pretending he didn’t see a problem with this. Because really, friends shared each other’s beds all the time. There was a reason it hadn’t even occurred to the tavern keeper to warn them before they paid for the room. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. Or, it wouldn’t have been, if he could trust himself around Crowley. If he could trust Crowley to stop tempting him and filling him with these sinful urges. These urges that got so much harder to ignore when alcohol was involved.

“Oh. That’s lucky, I suppossse.” Crowley said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and prying off his boots. Aziraphale waved a hand, and his clothes were instantly replaced with ones more suitable for sleeping in. Crowley apparently preferred to do things manually, stripping off, removing article after article of clothing and tossing them aside, until he was down to just his glasses, and an undershirt that stopped mid-way down his thighs.

Crowley laid back on the bed and sprawled out, as was his natural inclination to do, one hand resting under his head, one leg bent, causing his undershirt to ride up ever so slightly. Was he wearing anything underneath, or was that it? Aziraphale’s cheeks burned – he did not want to find out. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen Crowley so exposed before. He found himself staring at his long legs, with their toned calves, and smooth, flawless skin. Aziraphale had never known that legs, simple legs, that were just meant for walking around, could be so enticing.

“Angel. Are you going to get in, or just stand there all night?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Lord, give him strength.

He let out a breath, and nodded, before climbing into bed next to Crowley. He laid on his back, hands folded on top of his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. He was uncomfortably aware of the lack of space between them.

Aziraphale liked his own body, but he did find himself wishing, now and again, that it was smaller, purely for practical reasons. There were just times when it just seemed like it would be convenient to take up less space, and this was one of those times. If he had been as skinny as Crowley, they would have been able to share the bed, and still kept some distance between the two of them. As things were, he could practically feel the rhythm of Crowley’s chest rising and falling as he breathed.

Crowley, a being of constant motion, shifted, and every time he did, he brushed against a different, innocuous part of Aziraphale’s body – a shoulder against an upper arm, a hip against a hip, one of those long, porcelain legs against his own. Electricity danced across the surface of his skin wherever Crowley touched him. Aziraphale tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the way his heart jumped out of his chest at every meaningless touch.

“So, um. What you said about Eve, it made me wonder. Have you ever kissed anybody before?” Crowley asked, his voice no more than a whisper. Of course. Of course he wouldn’t let that go.

Aziraphale could just pretend he hadn’t heard. He could just ignore Crowley and go to sleep.

“Yes. Just once.” He whispered back. The confession was heavy on his tongue. There were no explicit rules against kissing humans, but it was something that was heavily frowned upon, and guilt hung over that particular memory. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. That he was currently doing something wrong. There was a long silence before Crowley responded.

“Another angel, or a human?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale almost laughed. None of the angels he knew (granted, there were a lot of angels he didn’t know) would ever understand his urge to try such a human activity, one so based in bodily pleasure. _But what is a kiss for?_ He imagined Gabriel asking. 

“A human. You wouldn’t think it would be pleasurable, or at least, I wasn’t sure if it would be. That’s not what mouths are meant for. But it was nice.” After the first admission, it was becoming easier to keep talking, to share everything with Crowley. And it was nice to have someone to talk to about all this. He wasn’t the perfect angel, and Crowley wasn’t the perfect demon. They understood one another in that respect. “Probably a foolish question, but have you ever?”

“Yes. On occasion. Not as often as I’m sure you’re imagining.” Crowley said, the bastard, as if he wasn’t the one making Aziraphale imagine it. Aziraphale felt his cheeks burn again. He was glad that with only a single candle lighting the room, it was too dark for Crowley to make out the blush that was undoubtedly appearing on his cheeks.

“Can I ask, what was special about that particular human?” Crowley asked, his voice tinged with an emotion Aziraphale couldn’t name. Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, trying to read his expression, before rolling onto his side to face him. Crowley did the same.

Now they weren’t touching anymore. Instead, they were face to face, inches apart from each other. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. He could see his own nervousness reflected in the dark mirrors of Crowley’s glasses. That was, until Crowley took them off, folding them up and placing them beside the bed, and suddenly Aziraphale was staring into those beautiful golden eyes.

“No. You can’t.” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley nodded, not pushing against the boundary Aziraphale had set up. It wasn’t that the memory was painful, or that he had some great love affair that he didn’t want Crowley to know all the highly intimate details of. The fact was, there had been nothing more special about that human than any other human. He had simply been the first to ask, and Aziraphale had said yes. Admitting that made the experience feel cheap, and so he’d rather not get into it.

“Would you ever do it again?” Crowley asked, after another long silence, and Aziraphale forgot how to breathe. He had no idea how it was possible to want something with every fibre of his being and be completely terrified of that thing at the same time.

“No. Angels aren’t supposed to, my dear. It’s sinful.” He managed to get out, his chest tight.

“Kissing isn’t a sin. And even if it was, how can you guide humans away from sin if you don’t know what it feels like yourself? How can you help humans if you don’t understand their struggles? Surely it’s a good thing for an angel to have tasted sin?” Crowley asked. He sounded frustrated, not at Aziraphale, but on his behalf, at the rules that bound him. “It wouldn’t be hurting anybody else, and it would make you happy, so why is it against the rules?”

“I don’t ask questions like that, Crowley. I just accept it. It’s ineffable, remember?” Aziraphale said, his voice tight.

Asking questions like that was a dangerous road to walk down. It started innocently enough, of course, just wondering why certain things weren’t allowed, wondering if one might receive an explanation as to why. But that was only a few steps away from disagreeing with the reason, and wondering if perhaps there had been an oversight, which was just a few steps away from thinking the Almighty had _actually made a mistake_. There was no coming back from that. The last time anyone had gotten to that stage, it had been Lucifer, and the other demons, and look at what had happened to them.

He didn’t need to know why it was frowned upon. He just had to accept that it was.

“I don’t understand how you can live like that.” Crowley said, not derisively. He wasn’t criticising Aziraphale, no, he genuinely didn’t understand. Aziraphale certainly couldn’t explain it to him. He barely understood it himself, some days.

“You should be free to do what makes you happy.” Crowley said, as if it was just that simple. As if Crowley knew what would make Aziraphale happy.

“Like you, you mean? Just doing whatever you please, and damn the consequences?” Aziraphale asked. Even as he said it, he knew it was unfair.

“No. There are things I want that I can’t have. I could just reach out and take them, but there would be consequences, and it wouldn’t just be me that would be punished, so I don’t.”

“Like what?” Aziraphale’s heart pounded in his chest. Oh God. Was Crowley about to -? This whole time, he’d thought Crowley was tempting him just to tease him, to make fun of him, but something that Crowley wanted that he couldn’t have, and it wouldn’t just be Crowley that would be punished? What else could that possibly be? Was Crowley-? Did Crowley -? He couldn’t bear to even finish the thought.

“Well.” Crowley said, before pausing, clearly having an internal debate about whether he should continue. After what seemed like an eternity, that Aziraphale spent with his heart in his throat, Crowley finally whispered, “I’ve never told anyone this before, but I want a child. I want to be a parent and raise a child.”

Aziraphale felt the tension inside of him dissipate. He was immensely relieved that Crowley hadn’t said what he’d thought he was going to say. Relieved, and a tiny bit disappointed. Then he stopped, and the words Crowley had actually said sunk in.

“You want a child?” Aziraphale asked, his voice tentative, and soft. It made a lot of sense, the more he thought about it. He’d seen Crowley’s fiercely protective nature around them. He’d seen the love, and, Aziraphale now realised in retrospect, longing, in his eyes when he looked at them. Aziraphale’s heart ached for Crowley.

“Obviously, I can’t produce my own, but I’ve thought of adopting. Humans abandon their children all the time, or they die and leave them behind. It’s not like I’d be stealing one.” Crowley seemed to feel the need to explain himself, justify himself, that this wasn’t some evil demonic scheme, but a genuine desire.

“No, I, I know.” Aziraphale wanted to reach out, to put his hand on Crowley’s, and reassure him that there was nothing wrong with what he was thinking. That it was actually the most noble, and beautiful thing he’d ever heard Crowley say.

“It’s ridiculous, though. A stupid idea. HQ would never let me, and if I did it without their permission, they’d accuse me of having split loyalties. I don’t even want to know what the punishment would be, but I'm sure I'd be putting the child in danger. And what child would want to be raised by a demon, anyway? I’m sure I wouldn’t know what I was doing, and if I made a mistake, I might ruin a whole life. And then. Humans age. I don’t. Fifty years, eighty years down the line… I’m not sure I could handle it.” Crowley said, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke. He let out a sigh, and closed his eyes. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say to that. It was humbling that Crowley would entrust him with this.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale started, before trailing off. How did he finish that sentence? _I always knew you’re not as demonic as you pretend to be?_ _You’re wonderful, and I love you, and I’m so sorry you’re in this position?_ Everything he could think of felt too small compared to what Crowley had just said.

In the end, he simply placed his hand atop Crowley’s cheek, gently brushing his thumb across the cool skin. Crowley’s eyes opened, and met Aziraphale’s, widening slightly. His lips parted, about to ask some question that died in his throat and was never spoken. He simply stared at Aziraphale, bringing his own hand up to rest on top of the angel’s. Their fingers laced together. 

They were so close. It would be so easy, effortless, even, to bridge the gap between them and press his lips to Crowley’s, to run his hands through Crowley’s hair and -

“I need to go.” Crowley blurted out, his eyes wide, panic in his voice.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said. Relieved. Devastated. He pulled his hand away, and Crowley sat up, like he couldn’t get away from Aziraphale fast enough.

“Yeah, sorry, I just, I need to go to the bathroom.” Crowley said, as he scrambled out of bed. The obvious lie hung in their air between them. He was a demon, he didn’t need to use the bathroom, would never need to use the bathroom. Aziraphale didn’t call him out on it, though. He was stunned silent. 

A snap of Crowley’s fingers, and his clothes were back on. A second later, and he was out the door, leaving Aziraphale alone in the room. Aziraphale went limp, letting his body flop back onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, and tears began to form in his eyes. What had just happened?

Crowley made it halfway down the stairs before he let out the scream of frustration that was building up inside of him, muffling it as best he could with a hand over his mouth. What the fuck had just happened?

He’d poured his heart out to Aziraphale - so embarrassing, why did he do that??? - and then when Aziraphale tried to comfort him, all he’d wanted to do was grab Aziraphale and kiss him. He’d had to get out, he couldn’t trust himself to be alone in a room with the angel for a second longer.

Crowley stopped for a second and imagined how it would have gone if he’d stayed. He would have kissed Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would have been horrified, would have thrown him off, and started yelling at him.

No, no he wouldn’t. Aziraphale was kinder than that, too kind for his own good. He would push him away, gently, as if Crowley were made of glass, and say “my dear boy”, in the most unintentionally patronising tone Crowley would ever hear. The tender, pitying look on Aziraphale’s face would have killed Crowley then and there.

Why did this matter so much? So he wanted to kiss Aziraphale. So what?! He wanted to kiss a lot of people. Why was he so shaken up about this? Even as he thought those words, he knew they weren’t true. This was more than that. This was something much deeper. This was something so horrifying he couldn’t even bring himself to think the words.

He needed more alcohol. Luckily, Aziraphale had dragged them to bed early, so the bar was still open.

An hour and another bottle of wine later, Crowley was ready to admit it. He was in love with Aziraphale. Fuck! How long had this been going on without him even realising it? How long had he been brushing off those pangs of jealousy whenever Aziraphale smiled at anyone else? How long had he been ignoring the butterflies in his stomach every time the angel did something ridiculous, yet effortlessly charming? How long had he been longing to just lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap and let him play with his hair?

Fuck. He was a demon, for Satan’s sake, not some dewy-eyed child. He was a demon, and demons did not love. Or, more accurately, other demons could do as they wanted, but Crowley did not love.

Crowley had loved before, and it had been torture. He had been devoted, and loyal, and he had loved so much he thought his heart might burst from it. And then one mistake, one question, and all of that love had meant nothing, and he had been cast out. It had ended with him Fallen, his heart broken, and Crowley resolute to never experience anything as horrible as that ever again.

So he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t go through it again. Especially not over an angel who would never feel the same way about it. Especially not over an angel, period, since if anyone from back home found out, he’d be branded as a traitor and thrown to the Hellhounds for breakfast. No. Crowley was not going to suffer through all the indignities that came with love.

He had fallen in love with Aziraphale. Fine. He would simply fall back out of love with him. He was in control of himself. He could simply refuse to feel those feelings. He would respectfully decline those feelings. And if that didn't work, he would disrespectfully decline them. He would drag those feelings down into a dark alley and kick the living daylights out of them. He'd chop them into tiny pieces, bake them into a cake and feed it to Aziraphale. Wait, no, fuck, that sounded too romantic, and now he was thinking about feeding Aziraphale cake. Gah! He would roll the feelings up into a carpet and throw them off a bridge. Yes, that was better. He'd forcibly evict them from his mind, as many times as he needed to, until they knew not to bother him again.

And once he'd done that, he could go back to being casual, platonic friends with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would never have to find out about his... unfortunate temporary infatuation.

Until then, it was probably safer to keep a bit of distance between the two of them, both literal and metaphorical. He’d sleep out in the stable with the horses if he had to, he wasn’t stepping foot in that room again tonight.


	7. The Aftermath, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that changes the rating of this fic from general audiences to explicit, 18+ only. Yes, it's porn time! (Don't get too excited, the ineffable husbands aren't together yet.)
> 
> If that's not your thing, feel free to skip! This chapter contains almost zero plot, and what little plot it does contain, I'll make sure to add a note at the beginning of the next chapter that will bring you up to speed. If it is your thing, enjoy!

Crowley sat back in his seat, looking down at the empty cup in his hand, debating whether or not to order another, when he felt a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. He looked up to see a human man seated across the room from him, eyeing him up. Crowley eyed him right back. Even from across the room, he could sense the man’s interest in him. Hm. Well this could be one way to get his mind off of Aziraphale, at least for an hour or so.

The man was handsome, in a plain, everyday sort of way, with a slightly upturned nose, and an enticing smile. He seemed maybe mid-fifties - while the mop of curls atop his head was still pitch dark, his beard was beginning to show flecks of grey and white. He was broad-chested, and a little round in the stomach, and what was more, he seemed to be alone. He waved at Crowley, before gesturing to the drinks on his table, indicating that there were two of them, and only one of him. He then shrugged, his expression almost helpless. _Oh no, whatever shall I do?_ The man’s face seemed to be saying. _I simply can’t drink them both by myself_. Crowley smirked. He’d be more than happy to help the man out of his quote-unquote predicament.

Crowley slithered across the room and settled into the seat beside his newfound companion.

“Evening.” Crowley said, a wolfish smile on his face.

“Evening. I’m Trifon.” The man introduced himself, lifting one of the drinks up, and holding it aloft. Crowley picked up the other, and smiled, clinking the rim of his cup against Trifon’s.

“Crowley.” He replied, before taking a swig. Now he was closer, he could practically smell the lust emanating off of Trifon.

Demons had an innate ability that let them sense a human’s emotions, especially when that emotion was driving a human towards committing a sin. It was a handy tool that allowed them to know whether or not a human would be susceptible to their demonic influence, which saved a lot of time in the field, as they weren’t constantly trying to tempt the untemptable.

Crowley had honed this ability over the thousands of years he’d been on Earth, fine tuning it until he could read humans emotions with great precision, and even sometimes sense their thoughts. He’d done this with the aim of getting better at his job, but an added bonus was that it made picking people up very easy, as he could instantly tell whether or not a human wanted him.

Crowley was rather glad the same trick didn’t work on supernatural entities. The thought of walking into a room full of demons and being given the same information was deeply unsettling. Some things he was better off not knowing, and whether or not Hastur had a hard on for him was definitely one of them.

“That was bold of you, in such a public place as this.” Crowley said, glancing around at the other patrons of the tavern, wondering if any of them had caught sight of the exchange. He wasn’t afraid of a violent encounter, more bored at the thought of one. He wanted to flirt and see where this led without the input of strangers who felt morally offended by two men (or one man, and a vaguely man-shaped being) enjoying each other’s company. 

“Not really. I know this place, and I know we won’t get any trouble here. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with buying a man a drink. Especially a man as beautiful as yourself.” Trifon said, and he meant it. Crowley knew that his human form was enticing, it was designed to be, but he still never tired of hearing people tell him so. He grinned, preening at the flattery.

“What brings you here tonight?” Trifon asked.

“I’m travelling, just passing through. I was visiting the city of Camelot for a spell, but now I’m on my way again.”

“Oh, that’s funny. I’m actually heading into the city. I’ll be riding out tomorrow morning.” Trifon said, and Crowley was grateful to hear it. They were heading in opposite directions – there was no expectation on either of their parts that this encounter would last longer than that night. They were not destined to be some great romance, or two star crossed lovers. They just wanted to enjoy each other’s bodies, and really, the simplicity of that was beautiful.

“Are you travelling alone?” Trifon asked.

“With a friend, actually.”

“Oh, I see. Um, where is he? I’ll get him a drink, too, if he likes.” Trifon offered casually, not voicing the disappointment that Crowley could sense on him. Some men turned hostile when they thought they weren’t going to get their way, but not this one. He seemed nice, Crowley decided. Not the type to use his body as they would their own hand, nor the type that he would look back on later and regret.

“Oh, he’s upstairs, asleep. And, we’re just friends, nothing more. We’ve been travelling together, but we’ll be parting ways soon. You see, he’s -” Crowley paused, trying to avoid accidentally telling the truth. “He’s a monk, very pious and devoted, and I’m, well, I’m unashamed debauchee, so we don’t have that much in common.”

Trifon laughed at that, a deep laugh that started in his belly, and Crowley’s lips quirked upwards, pleased to have evoked such a reaction.

“You know, I’m somewhat of a debaucher myself, so you can consider yourself in good company.” He said. Crowley wondered at the distinction between debauchee, and debaucher. He hoped it meant what he thought it did. He’d decided he did actually want to fuck this human, or more accurately, be fucked by.

“Are you staying here too?” Crowley asked, as innocuous as he could be when asking about someone’s sleeping arrangements.

“Aye. I am. Just me on my own, thankfully.” Trifon said. 

“Oh, good. Let’s go then.” Crowley said, throwing back his drink with a single gulp. He rose to his feet, ready to leave. Trifon looked taken aback by Crowley’s sudden decisive action, as though he couldn’t quite figure out how he had managed to luck his way into this.

“Oh, wait, really? Are you sure?” Trifon asked, hesitant, before Crowley cut him off, bending down, and catching Trifon’s mouth in a kiss. His worries suitably assuaged, Trifon kissed him back, eagerly. Crowley pulled away, keeping a hand on Trifon’s chest. Trifon moved forwards as Crowley leaned back, trying to kiss him again, and Crowley grinned, the single hand on his chest easily holding him still. Trifon’s desire was written plain over his face.

“I’m sure.” Crowley said, standing up straight, running his fingers through Trifon’s hair and ruffling his curls just so, before he turned and sauntered towards the stairs. His hips swayed as he walked, seductive almost to the point of being hypnotic. The ease he felt, knowing that Trifon would follow him, was like being back on dry land after months spent out at sea, struggling to keep oneself afloat.

Crowley held his breath as he walked past the room Aziraphale was currently in, ignoring the way that his stomach twisted at the sight of it. It was ridiculous – how could he feel guilty for sleeping with someone else, when he and Aziraphale weren’t even together? If Aziraphale knew what he was doing, he wouldn’t give a damn either way. Or, well, he might disapprove of the casual sex, and of Crowley for inspiring lust in the heart of a human, but certainly he wouldn’t feel _cheated on_. Because Aziraphale didn’t see him like that. They would never be together. The sooner his idiotic heart learned that, the better.

Crowley stopped walking, suddenly realising he didn’t know which of these rooms was Trifon’s. Trifon chuckled, took his hand, and led him through one of the several doors that lined the corridor. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, and Trifon had placed his candle somewhere it wouldn’t get knocked over, Trifon pulled Crowley into another embrace, kissing him. Crowley pushed Trifon towards the bed, and they stumbled backwards together, the side of the bed hitting the backs of Trifon’s knees. He fell and dragged Crowley down with him. Breathless laughter filled the room as they righted themselves. Crowley settled nicely into Trifon’s lap, pressing kisses to his lips, his jawline and down his neck. He tugged at Trifon’s clothes, tearing off his coat and his tunic, revealing his chest.

It was a nice chest, dusted with dark fluffy hair that trailed down to his stomach, and disappeared into his trousers. Crowley buried his face into it, kissing his way down Trifon’s chest. He licked over one of Trifon’s nipples and heard a ragged gasp in response. Realising how sensitive they were, Crowley lavished attention upon them, his forked tongue flicking over and encircling one while he pinched and toyed with the other.

He had been planning to take the man’s cock into his mouth, but he was quite content to stay like this instead, licking and sucking on his nipples, while Trifon moaned helplessly and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Experimenting somewhat, Crowley tried nibbling, rolling the hardened flesh between his teeth. That seemed to go over well, so he relinquished his nipple, and sank his teeth down into Trifon’s chest, biting him, hard.

“Ow, no, don’t do that.” Trifon yelped, and the hand tangled in Crowley’s hair tightened into a fist, pulling him away.

“Sorry.” Crowley said, thickly, watching as Trifon rubbed at the sore patch of skin Crowley had left him with. The tight grasp Trifon had on him was making him squirm, inadvertently grinding down into Trifon’s lap. That was a move which couldn’t possibly go unnoticed. Trifon’s grip on Crowley’s hair tightened further, tugging at the roots until it was painful, deliciously so. He forced Crowley’s head back, exposing his long, ivory neck, and dragging a broken moan out of Crowley in the process.

“You like this? The painful stuff?” Trifon asked, though it was really more of a statement than a question. Crowley whimpered, embarrassed at having this pointed out.

He was a demon, a supremely powerful supernatural entity, older than the planet they were currently living on, and possessing of magical abilities that were beyond the comprehension of any mortal mind. And yet, right now, all he wanted was to be dominated. He did not understand himself _at all._ It felt good though, and that was an impulse he couldn’t ignore.

Crowley nodded, foolishly, gasping as the movement tugged on his hair even more. Trifon grinned, and leaned forwards, licking a hot strip up Crowley’s neck, before biting down hard, sucking and attacking the skin with his teeth. There was sure to be a mouth-shaped bruise there the next day.

Crowley scrabbled to rip off his own clothes while Trifon assaulted him like this, wishing that he could somehow use magic to disrobe without Trifon noticing. When he got to the belt around his waist, he pulled it free, and then stopped, looking down at the long strip of cloth in his hands. Crowley bit his lip, debating on whether or not to share the idea he’d just had with Trifon. Fuck it. This was a stranger. If he wasn’t interested, or if he thought Crowley was weird or depraved, they would never have to see each other again. 

“This might be an odd request, but just go with it, yeah?” Crowley said.

“Depends what it is.” Trifon said, pulling away from Crowley’s neck, a questioning look on his face.

“Tie me up.” Crowley said, pressing his belt into Trifon’s hand, the one that wasn’t currently buried in his hair. Trifon looked down at the belt, and then back up at Crowley, and grinned.

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” There was a devilish glint behind Trifon’s eyes, and Crowley was suddenly so glad he’d found this person. The emotions pouring off of Trifon began to change. The lust, the desire to fuck Crowley, that was all still there, but, bubbling up beside it, was a new desire, the desire to _hurt_ him. Crowley was surprised by how appealing that was starting to sound. He inhaled deeply, almost intoxicated by the scent of it.

Of course, he wasn’t actually at risk. If anything started to go too far, Crowley had his magic. He could pause time, or simply knock Trifon unconscious. The only power Trifon had over him was that which he willingly handed over, and he could snatch it back at any time. It wasn’t that Crowley wanted to be seriously wounded, he just wanted to be at someone’s mercy. He wanted his arousal to be mingled with fear.

If he was with Aziraphale, he wouldn’t have the advantage of being a demon, since the two were much more evenly matched. If Crowley had Aziraphale on top of him, bearing down on him with all his weight and angelic strength, he wouldn’t be able to wriggle his way out of it. He’d be forced to submit, whether he wanted to or not, and fuck, he wanted that. He couldn’t help but think back to when Aziraphale had had him flat on his back, with a sword pointed at his neck, and the heat of arousal ran through him.

“You don’t happen to have a sword, do you?” Crowley asked, before he thought the better of it.

“Um… no. I don’t. What would I do with a sword?” Trifon asked, his voice a curious mix of alarmed and intrigued.

“Oh, well, you know, uh, threaten me, hold it against my throat while I’m on my knees begging for mercy, make me fear for my life, that sort of thing. But, never mind, it doesn’t matter, it was just a thought.” Crowley said, a flush appearing on his cheeks. He leaned forwards, trying to catch Trifon’s mouth in a kiss to distract him, to move them on from this conversation, but Trifon pushed him back. His eyes were wide, and he was grinning wickedly.

“Well, as I said, I don’t have a sword, but I can definitely rough you up a bit, if that’s what you want, I’d be more than happy to. Just, let me know if I go too far.”

“I can’t imagine you could do anything that would be too far for me. But, yeah, I’ll say, um, I’ll say the word ‘Leviticus’ if I want you to stop.”

“Leviticus. Got it.” Trifon nodded, taking a moment to make sure he would remember it, before grabbing Crowley, and rolling them both over, so that Trifon was on top of him. Crowley let out a startled cry, and before he could do anything, Trifon had already caught his hands and pinned him down. Crowley looked up at him. Trifon’s face was in darkness, obscured by the long shadows cast by the candle. He could have been anyone. He could have been – no. No. He wasn’t going there.

“Like that?” Trifon asked, hesitation in his voice. Crowley nodded, quickly, eagerly, not wanting him to think for a second that he had done anything wrong.

“Yes, exactly like that. Perfect, keep going.” He rushed to compliment and encourage, but as it turned out, Trifon didn’t need a lot of encouragement. He seized what was left of Crowley’s clothing, and pulled it off, so quickly and with such force, Crowley heard some of it rip. Suddenly he was naked, but for his glasses, and his clothes were in tatters on the floor.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Trifon said, slowing down, taking a moment to savour and appreciate the sight before him. Crowley preened at the attention, lounging back on the bed, displaying himself for Trifon to admire. Trifon reached down and plucked his glasses from his face, and frowned, clearly surprised at what he saw. He didn’t say anything, though, he just neatly folded the glasses, and carefully set them aside.

Crowley watched as Trifon finished undressing himself, tugging off his own trousers, before returning his attentions to Crowley’s body. Trifon’s hands ran down Crowley’s body, fingers skating along his skin of his chest and stomach, ignoring his cock entirely, instead opting to grope at his hips and caress his thighs. Trifon pressed kisses against his thighs, licking and sucking at the tender flesh, and Crowley moaned.

“You know, if you’re looking for something to do with your mouth…” Crowley’s hand landed on Trifon’s head, tightening amongst the curls, and guiding the other man towards his cock. Trifon looked up at him, a dark expression on his face, making Crowley shiver.

“Now why is this still free? I thought I was going to tie you up.” Trifon asked, catching hold of Crowley’s hand.

He lunged upwards, grabbing Crowley and flipping him over so that he was face down on the bed, making Crowley cry out from the sudden movement. He wrenched Crowley’s arms behind his back, one of his hands easily encircling both of Crowley’s wrists. Crowley jerked away, thrashing against Trifon’s grip. He wasn’t really trying to escape, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight, either. 

“Stop moving,” Trifon growled, as he tried to bind Crowley’s hands, struggling to tie a knot secure enough to keep the wily serpent from slipping it out of it again.

The husky tone of Trifon’s voice made Crowley’s cock twitch, half-hard at this point. Trifon was pressing him down, his body flat against the bed, and so he couldn’t help but rub himself against the sheets as he wrestled against him.

“Make me.” Crowley goaded, his voice dark, daring Trifon to act on any of the delicious impulses he could sense flashing across his mind. He’d done this before, Crowley was sure.

“You don’t want me to do that. And I’ll be angry if I have to. Now stop moving, or I’ll hit you.” Trifon warned, his voice low. Crowley, of course, responded by bucking wildly underneath him, freeing both of his arms in the process.

“Right.” Trifon said, and, fuck, the tone in his voice sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine. Trifon seized Crowley and lifted him clean off of the bed, manoeuvring them both until Trifon was sat down and Crowley was bent over his knees.

“Oh, I’m so scared.” Crowley taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The smirk on his face was quickly wiped off as Trifon brought a hand down sharply on his backside, making him cry out in pain. Trifon massaged the spot he’d just hit, the pressure gentle, but firm, before he lifted his hand up, and struck Crowley again. Trifon slowly built up his blows, each one harder than the last. He made sure to comfort and soothe Crowley between each of them, the gap sometimes dragging out so long Crowley would wonder if the next blow was ever coming.

Crowley squirmed, the pain of the spanking offset by the sweet pleasure of being able to grind down and rub his hardening cock against Trifon’s broad, muscular thighs. Trifon hit him again, hard enough that a loud crack resounded around the room, and Crowley let out a dry sob at the sharp, stinging pain.

“There, there, it’s okay. Now, I’m going to finish tying your hands up. Are you going to let me, or do I need to keep hitting you?” Trifon asked, his voice firm and commanding, leaving no room to argue. Crowley let out a whimper, the sound completely involuntary.

“You can tie me up, I won’t move.” He promised, holding his arms behind his back to emphasise his point.

“Good boy.” Trifon crooned, and Crowley near melted at the praise. Trifon picked up the belt from wherever he’d abandoned it and began wrapping it around his arms. He knew what he was doing with knots, Crowley realised, as he felt him feeding the end through complex loops, until his hands were completely trapped.

“There. _Now_ you can struggle, if you want.” Trifon said, evidently pleased with himself. Crowley tugged at it, testing its strength, and a thrill shot up his spine as he realised it would take a demonic miracle to escape it.

“Oh, Satan, I want you to fuck me.” Crowley groaned, his arousal burning inside of him. This was great, but he needed more. He needed to be filled, to be fucked until he couldn’t think anymore.

“Oh, shit, I don’t have any oil, or anything.” Trifon suddenly realised, swearing. Crowley briefly considered magically prepping and lubricating himself, but he wouldn’t be able to answer the questions that that would certainly prompt. He was already lucky Trifon hadn’t mentioned his snake eyes or his forked tongue.

“Oh, I’ve got some, there’s a bottle in the pocket of my robes.” Crowley said. There hadn’t been previously, but when Trifon looked, sure enough, there it was.

He opened the tiny bottle and poured the slick substance over his fingers. He pressed one into Crowley, and, quickly followed it up with a second. His fingers flexed and splayed out inside of Crowley, before they began thrusting properly. Crowley groaned, rocking back as best he could in his current position, his aching cock leaking precum over Trifon’s thighs. A third finger slid into him, and he gasped.

“Let me know when you’re ready.” Trifon said, his voice somewhat strained. Crowley could feel Trifon’s cock pressed against him, hard, and as yet untouched. Trifon was as worked up as he was, but he was holding himself back. Fuck that.

“I can take it.” Crowley assured him, letting out a filthy moan worthy of a succubus, purely to wind Trifon up. It worked. Trifon pulled his fingers out of Crowley, Crowley whimpering at the loss. He lifted Crowley off of his lap and laid him down onto the bed.

“Up on your knees.” Trifon ordered. Scrambling to obey, Crowley struggled up onto his knees, following the order as best he could without the use of his hands. Without his hands free to prop him up, his face was pressed down against the bed. The majority of his body’s weight was resting on his chest, while his ass was in the air, his legs spread wide. He was completely exposed, and entirely vulnerable. He couldn’t imagine a more degrading position that he could have been forced into. He couldn’t even pretend that he didn’t love it, though, not for a second. The sinfulness, the downright filth of the situation, was exquisite.

“Is this okay? Are you comfortable?” Trifon asked, and Crowley turned his head to the side to be able to answer him without being muffled by a pillow.

“It’s fucking perfect, alright, now fuck me already.” He snapped. He couldn’t wait a second longer.

Trifon carefully lined himself up and pushed into Crowley, his hands on Crowley’s hips, holding him in place. Crowley bit his lip, not wanting to make a noise at the slight burning, as he was forced to stretch to accommodate the thickness of Trifon’s cock. Trifon rocked back and forth, slowly easing his cock into Crowley, inch by inch.

“God,” Trifon groaned, as he finally bottomed out, fully sheathed inside of Crowley. Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d have slapped Trifon if his hands hadn’t been tied.

“Don’t fucking say that.” He hissed, his revulsion evident. He didn’t need to think about God right now, nor did he need to worry that God had heard and was currently watching them. None of that was conducive to a headspace where he could be brutally fucked and shamelessly enjoy it.

“Okay. Fine, whatever. I won’t say it again.” Trifon said, clearly confused, but not about to argue with the man his cock was currently buried inside.

Trifon began to slowly move, much too slow for Crowley’s liking. He groaned, frustrated at the treatment he was getting. It was too gentle, too gradual, and he needed more. In the position he was in, he couldn’t really rock back and alter the pace himself. He was entirely at Trifon’s mercy, and apparently all Trifon wanted to do was tease him.

“Fuck me! Harder, or faster, or _do something_. I can take it, I swear.” Crowley yelled, far too much like he was handing out an order for it to be called begging.

“So demanding.” Trifon chided. Crowley was about to retort, before a breathless moan was knocked out of him. Trifon pulled almost all the way out of him, before snapping his hips forwards and slamming into him.

Now Trifon was moving, good and properly, he built up a brutal pace, slamming into Crowley. Trifon seemed determined to make Crowley regret yelling at him like that, but so far it wasn’t working. Crowley was being fucked to within an inch of his life and he was loving every second of it. Crowley’s eyes slid closed, and his thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Aziraphale. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if it was Aziraphale fucking him, if it was Aziraphale who’s hands were clutching at his hips hard enough to leave bruises.

“Oh, Angel!” He groaned, too caught up in his own imagination to stop himself.

“What was that?” Trifon asked, breathless.

“I – fuck, I said, you’re an angel.” Crowley covered as best he could. Trifon laughed, nonplussed by Crowley’s comment, but seemingly willing to indulge him.

“Damn right I am. And I like it when you’re loud.” Trifon said, letting go of one of Crowley’s hips in order to scratch at him. He dragged his nails down Crowley’s back, tearing at the skin, and eliciting a harsh whine from the demon. If he had been human, that would have been sure to leave marks. He wasn’t, but if he wanted, it would anyway. He could tell his body not to repair itself, tell it to keep the bruises on him, as a delicious reminder of what had happened.

“If you want me to be loud, you’ll have to give me a reason to be.” Crowley goaded. They both knew it was bullshit - even as he spoke, his voice trembled and cracked, moans gasping out between words. They both knew Crowley was already coming undone.

Trifon did not disappoint, though. He leaned down, grabbing a fistful of Crowley’s hair, and pulled his head back, forcing his back to arch in the process. Crowley moaned, leaning away from the hand in his hair, and being punished for it with an even sharper tug.

The change in angle meant that every thrust was now aimed directly at his prostate and Crowley wailed. His muscles spasmed around Trifon’s cock as the sensitive spot was slammed into, again and again. Crowley let out a scream, his voice cracking at the intensity of it.

“Please, please, Angel, please!” He begged, his breath coming in ragged and desperate between his moans.

“Please what?” Trifon asked, teasing, and Crowley would have laughed at the reversal of roles if he weren’t so worked up.

“Touch me, my cock, I’m so close, please,” Crowley gasped, struggling against the belt that bound his hands, his fingers flexing uselessly. Trifon moaned, his hips stammering, clearly quite close himself.

“Well…” Trifon said, slowly, as if he was considering Crowley’s request. Crowley whined desperately, tugging his hands violently, trying to break through the cloth. He was so worked up, he had quite forgotten that he could miracle it away if he wanted.

“Please!” He choked out, his face burning red at the humiliation of being made to beg like this.

“Alright. Since you asked so nicely.” Trifon said, and Crowley nearly sobbed with relief. Trifon reached down and wrapped a hand around Crowley’s cock. It only took a few strokes before Crowley came all over his stomach, crying out and shuddering as his orgasm wracked through his body.

Trifon fucked him through it, every thrust agony to his now hyper-sensitive body. Thankfully, it didn’t take Trifon long to climax, Crowley’s fucked out whimpers and the sudden tightness around his cock pushing him over the edge.

Trifon pulled out of Crowley and let go of his hips. Without anything but his own trembling limbs holding him up, Crowley collapsed onto the bed. Trifon carefully untied Crowley’s hands. Once they were free, Crowley stretched, his arms immediately moving to fill the space they’d been denied from. Crowley hadn’t realised how much his arms had been aching until they were freed.

He expected Trifon to lay down beside him, but no, Trifon began to massage him. He knelt beside Crowley’s limp body, and slowly worked any knots out of his shoulders and upper arms.

“How you feeling?” Trifon asked, his voice soft as he worked Crowley over, his hands moving up to the back of Crowley’s neck.

“Huh?” Crowley asked. His mind felt sluggish, and he struggled to process the simple question.

“How are you feeling?” Trifon repeated, patiently.

“Good.” Crowley answered, his eyes closed. Unbeknownst to him, he was drooling onto the bed. Trifon chuckled, and, seemingly satisfied that Crowley wouldn’t be in agony tomorrow due to muscle fatigue, laid down beside him. Crowley didn’t normally cuddle with one night stands, but he was feeling a strange craving for touch and closeness, and he nuzzled into Trifon.

“Sorry.” Crowley muttered into Trifon’s chest, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. Trifon wrapped an arm around him, and softly stroked his hair.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You did really well, you were so good.” He said, making Crowley hum happily. Vague, nagging worries assuaged, Crowley drifted off to sleep.


	8. The Worst Breakfast of Either Of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! If you're someone who skipped the previous chapter on account of all the filthy, filthy content, let me get you up to speed. 
> 
> Crowley had a one-night stand with a human man, in a rented room in the tavern that was dangerously close to the room Aziraphale was in. It was kinky, and involved some bondage and spanking. Whilst in the throes of passion, he couldn't help himself from thinking about Aziraphale, and accidentally yelled out "Angel". And that's all the plot that that 3000-word chapter contained. 
> 
> Here's the next instalment. Enjoy!

“Yeah, sorry, I just, I need to go to the bathroom.” Crowley said, as he scrambled out of bed. The obvious lie hung in their air between them. He was a demon, he didn’t need to use the bathroom, would never need to use the bathroom. Aziraphale didn’t call him out on it, though. He was stunned silent.

A snap of Crowley’s fingers, and his clothes were back on. A second later, and he was out the door, leaving Aziraphale alone in the room. Aziraphale went limp, letting his body flop back onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, and tears began to form in his eyes. What had just happened?

He heard Crowley’s footsteps hurrying away into the distance. After they faded, silence fell, and Aziraphale knew it was safe to let out the ragged breath he’d been holding in. The tears that were collecting in his eyes threatened to start flowing, and he furiously wiped them away. Eyes screwed shut, he balled his hands up into fists, and pushed them against his eyes until it hurt, until he saw stars on the back of his eyelids.

“What is wrong with me?” Aziraphale groaned, letting his hands fall away from his face.

A bundle of nervous energy, he couldn’t stay laid down. He got out of bed, and sprang to his feet, pacing the tiny room. His hands flapped back and forth, as though he was trying to shoo away his worries. The repetitive movement usually soothed him when he was feeling anxious, but it wasn’t working tonight. His head was just too full.

Why had Crowley lied to him? Why had he run away? Had Aziraphale done something wrong somehow? Had Crowley realised that Aziraphale had been about to kiss him? If he had, well, why had he left? Aziraphale thought that that was what Crowley wanted. After all, it had been Crowley who had started that conversation in the first place. It was Crowley who pushed forwards when Aziraphale pulled away, and it was Crowley who tempted Aziraphale, teased him, and flirted with him. Why now that Aziraphale wanted to kiss him did Crowley run away?

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to stop that train of thought before it took off too far.

“You didn’t want to kiss Crowley. That was all just Crowley’s magic, that was him making you want to do it.” Aziraphale reminded himself, setting himself straight.

But if - no, not if - _since_ Aziraphale’s feelings were a result of Crowley’s magic, wasn’t Aziraphale wanting to act on them a victory for Crowley? After thousands of years of knowing Crowley, there was nothing about him that led Aziraphale to believe he would be anything other than a poor winner. Why wasn’t he still here, with an insufferable expression on his face, gloating?

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks, realising he was asking entirely the wrong questions. It didn’t matter _why_ Crowley had run away. What mattered was, Crowley running away had been the only thing that had stopped him from kissing him. Crowley running away was the only thing that had stopped Aziraphale from kissing _a demon_. The weight of that fact rested on his chest, uncomfortably tight as he tried to breathe. He couldn’t deny it. He had almost kissed his hereditary enemy. What did that make him? A poor excuse for an angel, at the very least.

He tried to picture what the other angels might say if they found out about it, and Gabriel’s face floated into Aziraphale’s mind, his lavender eyes narrowed in fury.

“Aziraphale. Explain yourself.” The imaginary spectre of Gabriel demanded of him. The feeling of pressure on Aziraphale’s chest increased. Gabriel, even an imaginary version of him, made Aziraphale nervous at the best of times. It felt like someone had taken hold of Aziraphale’s heart and started squeezing. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs, his breathing quick and shallow.

“I… I can’t.” Aziraphale choked out, a sob rising up in his chest. There really was no excuse, and no reason he could give to justify his actions.

“You can’t.” Gabriel repeated, his tone mocking, head tilted to the side as he looked Aziraphale up and down with disgust. “You’ve been cavorting with a demon behind heaven’s back. You’ve been lying to us. And you don’t have anything to say for yourself?”

“I… He’s been using magic on me. Tempting me.” Aziraphale stammered, his hands flapping harder. Gabriel hated it when he flapped his hands, Aziraphale knew, and just the feeling of those lavender eyes on him was enough to make him clutch his hands together and attempt to hold them still.

“Using magic on you. Tempting you.” Gabriel repeated, and Aziraphale nodded, frantically.

“You do realise, Aziraphale, that he had to be near you to be able to tempt you. If you just walked away, he wouldn’t be able to do it. Just by being around him, you’re allowing yourself to be tempted and led astray. And yet, you choose to be around him. Why?”

“Because he’s my friend.” Aziraphale said, well aware of how pathetic he sounded. If he ever got caught and had to justify his actions to the archangel for real, he would definitely need to come up with a better reason than that.

“He’s a demon! And you are an angel. You don’t get to pick and choose which demons you’re chummy with and which ones you’re working against. If you want to remain an angel, you’re working against all demons. Including Crowley.” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but linger on the threatening nature of the phrase _if you want to remain an angel_.

“But Crowley isn’t like other demons. He’s _nice_. He cares about humans, and he does nice things and he helped me, just yesterday. He could have beaten me and taken me prisoner, but he didn’t – “

“Wake up, sunshine! He probably just wants you indebted to him.” Gabriel said, and the hand on Aziraphale’s heart squeezed tighter. It was a possibility Aziraphale had not considered before, and the worry dug into him, even as he shook his head and denied it outwardly.

“No! It’s because he cares about me. He’s a demon who cares about an angel. Surely some… some redemption of some kind is possible?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because of course, Gabriel wasn’t really there, Aziraphale was simply talking to himself, and Aziraphale did not know the answer to that question. He pushed Gabriel’s image out of his mind. This pretend conversation wasn’t helping him at all. Once those lavender eyes were gone, he let go of his hands, unleashing them to flap as much as they wanted.

The more he thought about it all, the more questions arose in his mind. There were getting to be too many to even keep track of. He felt like an easily distracted cat in a room filled with mice – chasing one down, and almost, almost catching it, but before he could, he’d spot a different one, and veer wildly off course to try and hunt that one down instead. By the end of it he was dizzy and confused and fairly certain the mice were laughing at him.

An hour or so later, Aziraphale was no less anxious. He was, however, exhausted. He had flapped, and paced, and paced, and flapped - and, to be completely honest, cried a great deal - and in the process, he had tired himself out. The nervous energy filling his body was gone, used up, and its absence was a relief. His thoughts, previously frantic and buzzing around his brain, had quietened into a disgruntled murmuring. 

Aziraphale retreated back into the bed and pulled the blankets up over himself. There was a spare pillow, the one that Crowley had been using until he fled the room, and Aziraphale snatched it up and hugged it tight. It didn’t fully satisfy his craving for contact, but it was better than nothing. Unable to help himself, he buried his face into it, and inhaled deeply, Crowley's scent - the smell of wine and brimstone and, oddly, geraniums - filling his nostrils. He extinguished the candle with a mere look, and closed his eyes, ready to sleep.

Aziraphale didn’t often sleep – when he grew tired, simply resting was usually enough. He would lie down, or curl up with a book, and an hour or so later, he would feel refreshed, no sleep necessary. Sometimes, though, he did sleep, and often when he did, it was because he wanted time to pass quicker. He just wanted the night to be over.

Before he could fall asleep, however, he was disturbed by the sound of a drunken couple stumbling past the door of his room. The door next to his own opened, and then slammed shut, far louder than was necessary. Great. Aziraphale had finally gotten to a point where he would be able to sleep, and now these people were up making a racket. The walls between the bedrooms were pretty thin, and they weren’t going to keep out the noise, Aziraphale realised. Giggles floated across from the other room, followed by soft moaning. Aziraphale was sure that it would only get worse from there, and he really was not looking forwards to it. He didn’t want to be reminded of the human things he would never be able to experience right then, or the relative simplicity of the human life.

He also just plain did not want to listen to two strangers canoodling.

Aziraphale briefly considered making the walls thicker, but he wasn’t sure how exactly he would achieve this without the landlady noticing. Rather than partake in some late-night, impromptu architecture, Aziraphale summoned a pair of thick, fluffy ear muffs, and pulled them over his head. Once in place, they dampened his hearing down to a normal human level, preventing Aziraphale from hearing the quieter noises, and muffling all the rest. With all but the loudest of the noises the couple next door were producing now filtered out, Aziraphale closed his eyes and, once more, tried to sleep.

His eyes shot open again, when, some time later, he heard a loud crack. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it sounded uncomfortably close to the sound produced when flesh struck flesh, with the intent to wound. That on its own might not have made him worry, but it was followed by what sounded like a pained sob. Aziraphale sat upright, dread rising in his stomach, and he found himself praying that that sound was not what he thought it was – that the activity next door had not turned violent, and that one human was not forcing themselves upon another.

He pulled his ear muffs off and held his breath, as he waited for more noises, more signs of what might be happening. He wasn’t sure if that had been a slap, although he strongly suspected it was, and if he rushed to intervene when it wasn’t necessary, his righteous anger and angelic strength could seriously hurt an innocent human, or worse.

“There, there, it’s okay. Now, I’m going to finish tying your hands up. Are you going to let me, or do I need to keep hitting you?” He heard a man’s voice say, forceful and cruel, and the dread in Aziraphale’s stomach turned to rage. Aziraphale leapt to his feet, fists clenched, and stormed towards the door, but was stopped dead in his tracks by the reply.

“You can tie me up, I won’t move.” A voice said, contrite and submissive, and unmistakably, _Crowley_.

Aziraphale was too stunned to react. Crowley was in the next room, and someone was tying him up? But Crowley was a demon! Crowley had magic! How could Crowley be so overpowered by a single human that he would be forced to submit to such treatment? Aziraphale got his answer seconds later.

“Good boy.” The unknown voice crooned, and Crowley responded with a moan, filled to the brim with arousal and pleasure. It didn’t sound put on. It sounded genuine. Was Crowley _enjoying_ this?

“Oh, Satan, I want you to fuck me.”

Oh. Yes, apparently, he was.

Aziraphale got back into bed, the rescue mission aborted, seeing as Crowley didn’t actually need rescuing. The anger had vanished, and he felt almost empty at the loss. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the correct response to this situation was. He supposed he should ignore it, and try to go to sleep, but that seemed impossible when faced with those noises. They were almost pornographic in nature. But it wasn’t just the noises themselves, distracting and provoking at they were, it was the realisations that they had led to.

Crowley ditched him in order to go have sex with a random human. That just _hurt_. What, did Crowley have some sort of sixth sense that told him whenever there was a human looking for someone to mate with, and whenever it went off, he just dropped everything and ran to find them? Or was it just Aziraphale that Crowley abandoned in order to fornicate with a stranger?

Crowley’s filthy moans filled the air. Aziraphale pulled his ear muffs back on but the noises were growing so loud, it didn’t matter. He could still hear them, and his hands began to flap again. Surely at this rate, it was only a matter of time before someone complained – banged on their door and told them to shut up, the whole tavern didn’t want to hear what they were up to.

Crowley must have known how loud he was being. Did he just not care, or was it deliberate? Did he want people to hear? Did he want Aziraphale specifically to hear? Aziraphale didn’t dare contemplate that possibility, and immediately pushed it out of his mind.

Aziraphale rolled over onto his side and curled up in on himself. He didn’t need to hear this. Not today, not ever. He didn’t want to know what Crowley sounded like when he was in the middle of such activities – his overactive imagination already fantasised about Crowley enough, without being given all this fresh material to work with.

“Oh, Angel!”

Wait, what?!

Aziraphale snatched the ear muffs off of his head again, so quickly he almost flung them across the room. Had he imagined that, or had that actually happened? He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be. Maybe the human Crowley was having relations with was called Engel, and Aziraphale had simply misheard? Whatever had been said, Crowley sounded like he was in absolute ecstasy.

Good God. Crowley was torturing Aziraphale, whether he intended to or not.

Whatever was said next was too low for Aziraphale to hear it. What wasn’t too low was the scream that suddenly burst out of the room, startling Aziraphale and making his heart pound. What could possibly have provoked a reaction like that?

“Please, please, Angel, please!”

It had actually happened. Aziraphale hadn’t misheard.

What was more, it wasn’t a one time thing. It happened _twice_.

Oh, God.

A shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine at the sound of it, a tiny island of arousal beginning to form in an ocean of misery. He was disgusted with himself, and rather glad he hadn’t bothered to make the Effort today. He couldn’t imagine what this would be like if he had to contend with a real physical response while listening to this. As it was, Aziraphale’s face burned as he listened, and his fingernails were digging in to the soft pads of his hands.

Crowley was begging now. As much as Aziraphale knew that Crowley would object to the term - _I’m a demon, Aziraphale, demons don’t beg_ \- that was the only way he could describe the pure desperation dripping off of Crowley’s every word. His voice was breaking, as though whatever he was being put through was so intense, it was stopping him from finishing sentences. Finishing words, even.

Suddenly, Aziraphale remembered the enchantment that Crowley had cast over their voices when they’d been fighting, and with a wave of his hand, Aziraphale sound-proofed the wall between their two rooms. Instantly, silence fell in Aziraphale’s room. All the noise was safely contained behind a magical barrier. Aziraphale lay back on his bed, his face in his hands. He wished he’d thought of that earlier. He wished he hadn’t heard everything that had just happened. Now that he’d heard it, he could never unhear it.

The next morning, Aziraphale awoke to find himself alone. He'd been half expecting Crowley to sneak back into the room at some point in the night, and to awake to find the demon curled up beside him. He wasn't sure if such an outcome would have placated him or annoyed him further. As it was, the empty stretch of bed beside him left a dull pang in his chest. He tried, and failed, not to imagine what Crowley was doing right at that moment. The demon probably still asleep, cuddled up with some stranger. Maybe the stranger was awake, and stroking Crowley’s beautiful red hair. Aziraphale's stomach rumbled, rescuing him from the torments of his own mind, and prodding him out of bed. Aziraphale complied with his stomach’s wishes, quickly changing into fresh clothes, and heading downstairs to locate breakfast.

Aziraphale was in the middle of a wonderful breakfast of poached eggs, thick slices of ham, and freshly baked bread, when he heard a familiar voice across the tavern. He looked up to see two men standing at the bar, waiting for the landlady to show up so that they could return the room key. They had their backs to him, but he knew it was Crowley and his companion from the previous night.

Now in the light of day, they didn’t seem to be as interested in each other, Aziraphale thought. They weren't touching, and were stood slightly apart from each other, a vague air of awkwardness between them.

"Sorry I had to wake you up so early." The man said, running a hand through his thick, curly hair.

"'t's fine." Crowley said, his sentence punctuated with a yawn, "You did warn me last night that you had to leave early."

"True." The man chuckled. "I'm sorry about the robes, by the way. Got a bit carried away." A bit? Only a bit carried away? Aziraphale huffed in disbelief.

"Eh? Oh. Don't worry about it. I can fix it."

"Oh, good.” The man was interrupted in whatever he was about to say further by the appearance of the landlady of the tavern. Finally, the room key was taken away from them, and the man placed some coins on top of the bar, presumably paying off an outstanding tab. Once he’d dealt with all that, he turned back to Crowley.

“Well, it was certainly nice meeting you." The man said, a smile in his voice, and what killed Aziraphale was that Crowley responded in the exact same tone.

"Same to you." Crowley said, smiley, flirty. This man, whoever he was, pulled Crowley into a kiss. It was brief, and yet even so, something hot and ugly stirred in Aziraphale's chest. He didn't know what to name it, but he knew he didn't like it.

"Travel safe." The man said, before pulling away from Crowley, and heading out of the tavern. Crowley turned, looking like he was going to head back upstairs and get a few more hours sleep, before he spotted Aziraphale.

"Good Lord," Aziraphale muttered, watching with equal measures of disgust and fascination as Crowley walked across the room to his table. Now that Crowley was facing him, he could see the full extent of the damage.

He looked thoroughly dishevelled, like he'd been accosted by rogues. His clothes were rumpled and torn in places. There were bruises littering his neck, his jaw line, and his arms - every bit of exposed skin bar his face, really. Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder how much worse it was underneath his robes.

If he hadn't known better, if he hadn't heard Crowley crying out in ecstasy, begging for it, _harder_ , he would have assumed Crowley had been beaten half to death. It was quite horrifying, really. The bruises on his arms resembled handprints, and that ugly feeling inside of him burned hotter. That man, whoever he was, had left his mark on Crowley, like he'd /branded/ him. Like Crowley belonged to him. There was something deeply perverse about that, Aziraphale thought, and the ugly feeling inside of him agreed.

Crowley sank down into the seat opposite him, and Aziraphale caught the wince that briefly flashed across his face, before Crowley no doubt miracled the pain away. Harder, Crowley had been yelling. How much harder could it possibly have been without something inside of Crowley breaking?

"What's wrong?" Crowley asked, probably confused at the look on Aziraphale's face. He took his dark glasses off and laid them on the table, attempting to rub the sleep out of his golden eyes.

"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror this morning?" Aziraphale asked, his tone cold and biting.

"Huh?" Crowley looked at Aziraphale blankly, before understanding flooded his face. He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to laugh, and annoyance bristled inside of Aziraphale.

"Sorry. Forgot that was there." Crowley said. He snapped his fingers, and nothing happened.

"’t’s too early for this." Crowley muttered, snapping again. This time, his hair neatened itself, his clothes returned to their usual state, all the tears mended, and the bruises faded from his skin. He turned in his seat, looking about to flag down a waitress and beg her for something sweet and caffeinated to wake him up.

"Dare I even ask why you look like you've been beaten half to death?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley didn’t turn to face him, but even without seeing his face, Aziraphale knew that Crowley was rolling his eyes.

"I had sex, Aziraphale. It's something grown-ups do when they're bored, drunk and randy." Crowley said. He sounded exhausted by this conversation already, as if he was about to plead with Aziraphale to give him a break. Aziraphale didn’t care. If anyone deserved a break, it was Aziraphale.

"I know what sex is, Crowley, and I happen to know that there's a big difference between sex and whatever the hell you got up to last night. Sex isn't supposed to be so violent."

"Angel, please -"

"Oh, that sounds familiar." Aziraphale sniped, unable to help himself.

"Ngk." Crowley said, a choking noise coming from somewhere deep in his throat. His whole body stiffened, his spine straightening, and he turned back towards Aziraphale, his eyes wide, so expressive without his glasses to shield them. They were filled with dread.

"Um. What do you mean?" He asked, with a feigned air of casualness.

Right at that moment, the waitress arrived to take Crowley’s order, giving Aziraphale time to consider his response. He certainly wasn’t going to inflict this conversation on the wait staff who just happened to have the poor fortune to be working that morning.

Aziraphale’s mind was full of questions, all screaming at him, and if there was ever a time to ask them, this was it. _Why did you initiate the most intimate and personal conversation we've ever had, and then run away? Why didn't you tell me the truth about why you left? Why are you constantly tempting me? Why did you make me want to kiss you? Why did you yell my name?_

Of course, angel wasn't his name, and it wasn’t as if it was a term of endearment either, as Crowley often said it in a mocking, almost derogatory way. But he'd never once heard Crowley say it about anyone else. Coming from Crowley's mouth, angel almost always meant Aziraphale. So why had he called some random human angel? Some random human he was having sex with, no less?

Crowley finished ordering his food, and the waitress left. Crowley looked down at the table instead of looking at Aziraphale, unable to make eye contact with him. He was uncomfortable. _Good_ , Aziraphale thought, spitefully. Aziraphale had spent all last night being uncomfortable. Now it was Crowley's turn.

"What I mean is, if you find me so boring that you feel the need to run off and ditch me to cavort with a human, the least you could do is sound proof the room." Aziraphale said, stabbing at the eggs on his plate with considerable venom as he spoke.

Crowley stared at him, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words. When he finally did, they all tumbled out of his mouth at once.

"I didn't- that's not why I - it's not like I was/trying/ to be loud, I didn't know anyone would be able to hear it, and, I, I wasn't bored of you, that’s not why I, you're being so self-centred, Aziraphale, not everything is about you! I -" Crowley stammered, before Aziraphale cut him off with a harrumph.

"Self-centred? Considering the circumstances, I think it's rather warranted!"

"Look, you're blowing this way out of proportion, but if you really want to know why I ran off, I’ll tell you. Do you want to know?" Crowley asked, his tone aggressive and confrontational.

Aziraphale paused. There was a chance that he'd pushed too far, and Crowley was about to expose Aziraphale for the terrible angel that he was and mock him for daring to even think about kissing someone as beautiful and perfect as Crowley.

_Oh, shut up Crowley! Get your damn thoughts out of my head!_

"I left because I'd just told you my biggest secret and it was embarrassing and painful. Me, wanting a – it’s hard to think about. It’s depressing, and it stirred up a lot of _emotions,_ ” Crowley said the word emotions with derision, as if the very concept of them insulted him, and shuddered before continuing, “and I didn't want to feel like that anymore. Alright? Are you happy? It wasn't anything to do with you, or anything you did. I said something that I regretted saying, and it made me want to leave, so I did." 

Oh. It really wasn't about him? Crowley hadn't even known that Aziraphale wanted to kiss him? Well that was a relief. But if it was true, if Crowley had run away because he was panicked at the vulnerability and intimacy of the situation... then was Aziraphale giving him a hard time unfairly? Guilt swelled up inside of him, as the more he thought about it, the more he thought yes, he was.

"I’m sorry. You know, you could have told me that." Aziraphale said, his voice softer. His words were not a reprimand, he was not scolding Crowley for not telling him. Instead, they were an offering, giving Crowley the opportunity to tell him these things in the future, if he wanted to.

"And you could have sound-proofed my room for me if you objected to the noises that much. You have magic, too, Aziraphale." Crowley pointed out, not forgiving Aziraphale that easily.

"I did sound proof it! I mean, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?” Aziraphale said, even though they both knew how much time had elapsed between when Crowley had first started moaning, and when Crowley had cried out ‘angel’. They both knew how long it had taken for Aziraphale to sound proof the room. Thankfully, Crowley did not point this out. They settled into a tight, uncomfortable silence.

Crowley's food arrived, and still, not a word had passed between them. Crowley sipped at his drink and began to eat in that disgusting snakelike way of his.

Aziraphale let out a sigh. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but he didn’t have a choice. If the tempting and the feelings and all the confusion continued, these misunderstandings would keep happening between them. More than that, though, he didn’t want to have another close call like they’d had with the kiss. He couldn’t risk something like that happening again, and Crowley not running away that time. He had to put a stop to this.

While Aziraphale was making this resolution to himself and steeling himself for what he was about to say, Crowley was unhinging his jaw and swallowing a pork sausage whole. He was hungry, and when he was hungry, he preferred for the food to hit his stomach as quickly as possible. Chewing just didn’t seem necessary. There was also the added bonus that this method was much quicker. He wanted to be able to leave the table and end this conversation as quickly as possible.

He couldn’t _believe_ Aziraphale had heard him. Satan, so much for his whole plan. He’d wanted to deal with his feelings in private, and instead, he’d accidentally announced them to the whole world, and Aziraphale had been right next door and heard the whole thing.

Based on the way Aziraphale reacted, Crowley felt like he’d managed to manoeuvre his way out of having to explain what had happened. Guilt tripping Aziraphale was pretty easy, and Crowley was sure Aziraphale would be too busy feeling bad about Crowley’s _emotions_ (ugh, hate that word) to realise that Crowley had entirely sidestepped the yelled-out-his-best-friend’s-name-while-having-sex-with-someone-else issue. It wouldn’t last forever, though, and by the time Aziraphale brought it up again, Crowley would have had to figure out a good lie.

"Crowley, you’re right.” Aziraphale said, abruptly restarting the conversation. Crowley looked up, surprised. His plate was almost clean by that point. So close, yet so far.

“I know that. But, about what?”

“That I was being self-centred. I was, you’re right, but there’s a reason for that, for why I thought you were acting in a certain way purely to get a reaction out of me.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley froze. Oh no. Oh, please, Satan, let this not be what he thought it was. Come on, he’d only just figured it out himself, and he’d already blown it?

“Oh?” Crowley asked, feigning mild interest, while his heart pounded in his chest.

“I've avoided talking to you about this for a while, because I thought I could just ignore it, and I wasn't even sure you were aware of it, I thought it might be a subconscious thing, and, well, it's a bit embarrassing really, but I need you to stop it. The feelings, I mean. It's honestly making it rather hard to continue to be your friend."

Crowley stared at Aziraphale as he talked, feeling his cheeks gradually getting hotter and hotter. The first thing his brain managed to process was the embarrassment, the horror, of realising that Aziraphale knew he was in love with him. And apparently had known for a very, very long time. Crowley briefly considered denying it, but it was much too late for that. Aziraphale already knew, and there was no lie that Crowley could tell that would convince him he'd been wrong, not after last night.

Second, was the realisation that Aziraphale didn’t feel the same way. Of course he didn’t, that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Aziraphale was an angel, one of the best ones they had. He was good and perfect, and beautiful. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in Crowley, the vile, wretched creature that he was. Crowley had already known that, really, except for one tiny shred of hope that had been residing somewhere in Crowley’s chest. He hadn’t even known it was there until it had been shattered, and ground into a fine powder beneath Aziraphale’s boot.

This was ridiculous. Why was he so upset? Crowley had already wanted to stomp those feelings out of existence. Aziraphale was just agreeing with him! It shouldn’t have hurt. Except that Aziraphale was telling him to his face to stop loving him. The rejection stung hot in his eyes, and Crowley buried his head in his hands, hiding his expression. He let out a noise, intended to be a little frustrated groan, but came out more as a whimper.

"Oh, Satan. I was hoping you hadn't noticed. I only just realised myself." He finally managed to get out, not looking up at Aziraphale.

"Crowley, I could feel it. Of course I noticed." Aziraphale said, and Crowley could have kicked himself. Angels were beings of love themselves. Of course Aziraphale had been able to sense it on him. He must have known since the very beginning and had just been hoping it would go away on its own this whole time.

"Oh, fuck. I forgot - you're an angel. That must have been so uncomfortable for you."

"Well I think it would be uncomfortable for a human, too. But I supposed they wouldn't be as attuned to it... So it wasn't intentional?" Aziraphale asked, his voice light, and Crowley lifted his head up, an incredulous expression on his face. Intentional? Why would Crowley have put himself through all of this _intentionally_?

"What- Of course it wasn't intentional! Look, it's, it's nothing personal, I think it’s just because I’m a demon, you know, and I think it just kind of comes with the territory. Wanting things you’re not supposed to want, I mean. Since we're hereditary enemies, I think all that energy just kind of latched on to you." Crowley said, hoping his bullshit reasoning made sense to Aziraphale.

He wasn’t in love with Aziraphale because something in his demonic nature gave him a predisposition towards falling in love with the enemy. He was in love with Aziraphale because _he was Aziraphale_. But having that excuse made it seem lighter, somehow, and made his feelings seem less real. As soon as he’d thought of it, he knew he was going to stick to it.

"Ah, I see... Um, so, _can_ you stop? Is it the sort of thing you have control over?" Aziraphale asked, wringing his hands in front of him. Apparently Aziraphale was as stressed out as Crowley, which didn’t seem fair. He was the one who’d brought all this up in the first place, and now Crowley was supposed to feel sorry for the poor, anxious, hand-wringing angel?

"Yeah. Easily." Crowley said, casually, before realising that the angel would be able to sense that he was lying, would be able to feel his stupid feelings radiating off of him. "I mean, it's not the sort of thing you just flick a switch on, it might take some time. But I'll work on it, I swear. I’ll get rid of them one way or another.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief and beamed. He really was _beaming_ , his whole body seeming to glow with happiness. These feelings of Crowley's must have been weighing Aziraphale down, stressing him out, for a really long time, and now that weight was lifted, it was like a cloud had shifted from in front of the sun. Crowley felt a dagger stabbing through his chest at the sight of it. This wasn’t fair. Even as Aziraphale was rejecting him, he still felt that the angel was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. That was just rubbing salt into the wound, that was.

After he finished eating, Crowley paid for his food, made his feeble excuses, and left. He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t particularly care, as long as it was far, far away from Aziraphale.


	9. Lend A Hand (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has forgotten how to act around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale, the oblivious bastard that he is, can't understand why.
> 
> Chapter content warning for anxiety and a brief, not at all graphic mention of dismemberment and general disregard for human remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Crowley has changed appearance, and is now in the form of a cis woman. I'm using she/her pronouns for her, not because appearance = pronouns, but because she would have changed her appearance precisely so that people would treat her differently, which would include using different pronouns.

That was how the arrangement began, as a one time thing. But, having done it once, there was no way to unring that bell. Now that they’d done it, even as they swore to each other it would never happen again, from that point on, in their minds, it was always an option. And so, “just this once” led to “okay, this situation is uniquely important, so we’ll make an exception to the Just This Once rule, but never again after this!” And then there was another ‘uniquely important’ situation. And another. And another. And as time went on, it started to feel a lot less like a series of highly unusual incidences, and more like a habit.

Truthfully, it did not happen often, in the grand scheme of things. The world was large, and there were so many people that needed help, and so many people that could be tempted into wickedness. It was rare that Crowley and Aziraphale crossed paths, and even rarer that their aims collided with each other when they did. Most times when they bumped into each other, they were not adversaries.

But ever since Camelot, they’d felt a lot less like the old friends that they truly were. Things had changed between them. Case in point.

The year was 752 AD. Crowley was living in Tangier and had been for the past decade. It was a beautiful city, and Crowley liked the northern marketplace best of all. It had a patchwork-like feel to it, with its mixture of tents, open air stalls and vendors selling from wheeled barrows, pushing their wares around. It was all so bright and colourful, it almost didn’t look real. They sold everything here, from clothing to weapons, to hot food, to works of art, to freshly caught fish, to musical instruments, to live animals. The air was filled with the sounds of bustling activity - of customers haggling for better prices and of merchants calling out and advertising themselves, enticing customers to come and look. The occasional musician stood playing, a hat full of coins on the ground next to them, as passers-by rewarded them for their songs.

But beneath the beautiful, wholesome surface was a dark, seedy underbelly of criminal activity, and that’s what Crowley really loved. Thieves ran amok, cutting purses and shoplifting. Fraudulent medicine men loudly boasted that they had miracle elixirs that could cure any disease. Crowley frequently visited one of the gambling tents, just to watch the cheating con artists do their work. Beautiful women were paid to lure in rich, gullible men and ply them with drink. The men would drink, and laugh, and have a wonderful time, up until the moment when they would be invited to play a game of chance. They would inevitably leave penniless.

Crowley was wandering the marketplace one day, overseeing her current trouble-making project, when she felt the air change. It wasn’t anything to do with the temperature or the humidity, exactly. It was that the air itself felt friendlier. More welcoming, somehow. There was only one explanation - Aziraphale must be somewhere nearby, pouring his ethereal goodness out into the world.

Her heart leapt, the thought of seeing him filling part of her with an almost giddy happiness, while the rest of her tried desperately to wrangle that part back down and stuff it into a box where it couldn’t be heard from again. It had been eighty years since she had last seen Aziraphale, and two hundred and fifteen since they’d had that horrific conversation in Camelot, and yet, she still had not managed to get her feelings under control. In fact, it was worse now. She’d been in love with him for eons without realising it. Now that she knew she loved him, and now that she knew that Aziraphale knew, it was as if she’d forgotten how to act around him. The last time they’d seen each other, she’d been so self-conscious she’d barely been able to speak a single word without second-guessing herself. It was hard to forget that every time she felt those damned fluttering feelings, Aziraphale could feel them too. It was even harder to forget how much they distressed him.

Maybe it would be better if she just stayed away until she figured this out. Aziraphale probably hadn’t noticed her yet, maybe she’d be able to sneak away without Aziraphale ever knowing she was even here.

It was just as she was thinking this that she spotted him, over by a stall that was selling books. He was poring over them, absolutely entranced. He picked one up, and ran a hand over the front cover, tenderly stroking down its spine, seemingly relishing the smooth, supple feeling of the leather binding. She’d never seen him this happy in a situation where food wasn’t involved. He was even giving off that heavenly glow of his. Even from a distance, he looked so beautiful, Crowley couldn’t help but linger a moment and watch him. He still didn’t know she was there, so what was the harm?

Aziraphale opened the book and flicked through the pages, before lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering closed. Why on Earth he felt the need to smell a book before purchasing it, Crowley hadn’t the foggiest idea, but apparently it was an important step in the process, as he seemed to do it with each one he picked up. Seemingly out of nowhere, he frowned, lowering the book he was holding, and lifting his nose to the air. His face scrunched up cartoonishly as he sniffed, looking from side to side. Crowley wondered what he could possibly be smelling, and then she realised, her. She’d tried to mask it with foxglove, but the smell of brimstone was still quite evident on her, especially for someone with heightened senses, like an angel, for example.

Crowley spun, and began heading as quickly as she could in the opposite direction before Aziraphale could realise she was the source of it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice called out from behind her. She stiffened, her shoulders tightening. Too late.

“Crowley, is that you?” Aziraphale asked, louder, closer. Crowley kept walking, hoping perhaps he would be dissuaded and think she was somebody else. It didn’t work. He caught up to her, and lightly tapped her shoulder, and she was forced to turn and acknowledge him.

“Oh, hello, Aziraphale. Fancy seeing you here.” Crowley said, as if she hadn’t heard him yelling after her. Aziraphale looked her up and down, his eyes widening as he noticed how different she looked now.

Crowley had always been flexible with her gender presentation, and had worn whatever clothes she’d felt like wearing, regardless of the gender they were usually associated with. A while back, however, she’d decided that wearing different clothes wasn’t enough for her anymore. She’d gotten bored of the way her body looked, and all the assumptions that came with it, so she’d decided to change it.

This was the first time Aziraphale was seeing her like this. Her skin was brighter, softer, and smoother. Her hair was much longer, it fell to her hips, kept out of her face with intricate little twisting braids run through with thin strands of gold. What was more, she had _curves_ now, however slight and small they were. Her serpentine body didn’t like holding onto fat, it tended more towards lean muscle, but she had managed to convince it to manifest little breasts, and the barest suggestion of hips. All in all, she looked mostly the same, and she hadn’t changed her face at all, save for some make up, but still. She liked the change, and she wanted Aziraphale to like it too.

“Oh, this is different. New look, I mean. Is it a disguise? Some sort of scheme you’re running?” Aziraphale asked, sounding rather confused. It wasn’t the reaction she’d been hoping for. Of course, already it was better than the way the other demons had reacted, which was just to mock her for caring so much about her appearance.

“No, it’s not a disguise. I just felt like it.” Crowley shrugged, having to hold herself back from adding, _do you like it?_

“I see. So, when you’re in this form, are you still called Crowley, or have you changed your name again?” Aziraphale was still frowning. Crowley couldn’t help but notice, though, that this question wasn’t aimed at sating Aziraphale’s curiosity. It was aimed at making sure Crowley was comfortable with the way he was addressing her.

“I’m still Crowley. Going by she and her these days, though.” The humans in this area knew her as Ashtoreth, but that was more of an alias designed to help her blend in, really. 

“Righto then.” Aziraphale paused for a moment, seemingly taking a beat to absorb that, before brightening up and smiling up at her. “Well, I have to say, you do look lovely, my dear girl.”

Oh. That was the reaction she’d been hoping for. She bit the inside of her cheek, keeping herself from smiling. Crowley’s insides fluttered at the compliment. Immediately, she tried to quash that feeling, hoping to be able to snuff it out before Aziraphale could sense it on her, swatting at the metaphorical butterflies with a metaphorical rolled-up newspaper. Aziraphale was just being nice. He didn’t really mean it.

“Yeah, whatever.” Crowley said, trying hard to sound like she didn’t care either way.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, about to say something else, but just at that moment, a rather irate bookseller caught up to them.

“You! Are you going to pay for that?” The bookseller demanded, pointing at the book in Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale frowned, then looked down, following the booksellers pointing finger. The horrified expression on his face told both Crowley and the bookseller that it wasn’t intentional, he’d entirely forgotten he was still holding it.

“Oh goodness. Oh, I’m so sorry, yes, of course I’m going to pay. I’ll do that right now, immediately.” Aziraphale assured him, quickly turning beetroot red. “Excuse me, my dear, this will just take a tick.”

He rushed back off to the stall to deal with that situation, leaving Crowley where she was. It struck Crowley, as she was watching Aziraphale receive a lecture from the angry shop keeper, how different Aziraphale’s reaction had been from the demons’ reactions. Whenever a demon saw that she’d changed her form, they usually mocked her in some way for it, told her she was being frivolous, caring about unimportant things, or, to quote Hastur, _going native_.

Other demons didn’t care what their bodies looked like. Bodies were randomly assigned, after all, and they were only supposed to be vessels, containers for their true forms. They only mattered insomuch as what assumptions humans made about you when they looked at your body. And, being that Crowley was a genderless demon older than the Earth itself, there was not a body imaginable that would lead a human to any correct assumptions about her. So really, it didn’t matter what she looked like.

Except that it had started to matter, to her at least. Crowley couldn’t explain why, even to herself. It just did, and Aziraphale was taking it in his stride. He sensed it was important to Crowley, and even though he might not understand it, he acted accordingly. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but a nice one.

She watched a profusely apologetic Aziraphale heap coins into the shopkeeper’s hands, undoubtedly far more than were actually necessary, and that fluttering started up again. She desperately tried to stop it.

“Stop it. Stop it right now. He’s an angel. He’s not interested in you. And, you know what, he’s not that great anyway. He’s judgey. He’s pernickety. He’s fussy. He whines. He gets all offended and righteous every time you suggest breaking the rules.” Crowley scolded herself, quiet enough that no one else could hear.

Everything she was saying was true, these were all qualities Aziraphale possessed that seriously annoyed her. They didn’t change anything, though. Even as she listed these things that annoyed her about him, she knew that she could make a doubly long list in the other direction.

“When he smiles, he lights up the whole room. He’s charming. He can criticise Heaven, even if it takes him a while, which is so rare for an angel to be able to do. He gave away his flaming sword, for Satan’s sake. He’s your friend even though you’re a demon. He’s intelligent, and charming, and fierce, and so soft, and funny. Oh, fuck.” Crowley let out a low groan and threw her head back to look up at the sky, helplessly.

She wondered if this was God’s idea of a joke, making a demon fall in love with an angel, or if Crowley had gotten herself into this horrible position all on her own. Misery began to set in. She didn’t have the energy to keep swatting at her thoughts like this. There were too many of them and keeping track of them all was exhausting. Being around Aziraphale was exhausting. If Aziraphale didn't have his damn angelic love detection powers, maybe Crowley could relax around him. She couldn’t, though, not when she knew how uncomfortable she was making him. She’d make her excuses and leave when he came back. She couldn’t handle an entire dinner spent like this.

“So sorry about that.” Aziraphale apologised when he returned, holding his new, now purchased, book, still quite red in the face.

 _‘Turned to a life of crime, have you? Not very fitting for an angel’_ is what she would say if things were still normal. They weren’t, though, and she didn’t want her usual teasing to be misread as flirting. Unless it was flirting, and that’s what she’d been doing this whole time? She pressed her lips together, suppressing a frustrated groan at her realisation. Aziraphale frowned at her, then filled the silence between them himself.

“I suppose I can’t really blame him for reacting like that. This place is full of thieves, he can’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. He was telling me all about it, apparently someone is running some sort of school for criminals, where children go to learn how to pick pockets and become tiny scam artists.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, feigning surprise. She’d have to have a talk with her little scoundrels and miscreants later. Clearly they weren’t being sneaky enough, if people were finding out about the school.

“Well, regardless. I’m out almost seventy dirham after that, so I hope you don’t think it’s rude of me if I ask you to pay for lunch. There’s some incredible smelling stalls over that way, if you’d like to go have a look?” Aziraphale smiled, brightening up at the thought of food, as he always did.

“Oh, I would, but I’m busy. I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Crowley said quickly, not giving herself a moment to think about it.

“Oh. Can’t it wait?” Aziraphale asked, looking crestfallen, and Crowley groaned internally, frustrated. Didn’t he know how difficult this was? Why was he putting up a fuss when he knew that Crowley still hadn’t gotten over her feelings? Surely, he could still feel them pouring off of her?

“No, ‘fraid not. It’s rather pressing stuff. I’ve got people to make suffer, places to make more miserable, a few folk legends I’m supposed to inspire, etcetera, you understand.” Crowley said, rubbing her hands together as if she was cooking up an evil plot at that very moment, deliberately not looking at Aziraphale’s face as she brushed him off.

“Oh, well, I’ll be in town for a while, a few weeks at the very least, so perhaps you can find time in your schedule for a glass of wine, at least.”

“Wait, you will? Why?” Crowley asked, hoping her voice didn’t contain as much dread as she was feeling. A month or two of dodging Aziraphale and his invitations without hurting his feelings seemed impossible.

“My job, the whole reason I’m here, it’s probably going to take a while. I’m looking for something.”

“Oh. What are you looking for?” Crowley asked. Maybe if she helped him find whatever it was, he’d be on his way faster.

“As strange as it sounds, a severed hand.” Aziraphale said. Crowley blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting Aziraphale to say, it wasn’t that.

“You’re right, that does sound strange.” She agreed with him slowly. “Why are you looking for a severed hand?”

“It belonged to Saint Bahija. It’s missing, and I need to get it back.” Aziraphale’s hands began to flutter as he spoke, and Crowley felt a wave of sympathy for the agitated angel.

“What was a saint doing with a severed hand? Doesn’t seem like a very holy thing to have.” Crowley said, Aziraphale’s answer only inspiring new questions.

“No, it was her hand. As in, it wasn’t severed when she had it, it was attached to her body. Some humans believe that saints bodies, or their belongings, possess supernatural properties. And, there’s actually some truth to it in some cases, like with Saint Elisha. His bones brought a dead man back to life after the man was thrown into the same burial pit as him.”

“Shame he didn’t have the power to bring himself back to life.” Crowley muttered, before sighing. “How did you manage to lose her hand?”

“I didn’t lose it! When she died, she was all in one piece, and she was buried that way. But some humans took it upon themselves to dig her up and hack her body to pieces, because they were convinced that her body parts would have these properties. They stole bits of her body and sold them off to the highest bidders.” There was a hard edge to Aziraphale’s voice, like he was genuinely angry and hurt that this had happened. Crowley wondered if he had known the saint while she was still alive.

“Delightful.” Crowley wrinkled her nose up at that, disgusted at the sort of things humans did to each other. “Do we know if it actually does contain magic or not?”

“No, there’s a chance it does, but I’m not certain either way. But in a way, it doesn’t actually matter whether it does have any power. Belief can be powerful enough in its own right, and humans really do believe that this sort of magic can solve all their problems – cure their ills, make them wealthy, make all their dreams come true. It would be dangerous to just leave it here. Once I’ve found it, I’m going to give it to some humans I trust, who can make sure no one abuses any powers it may or may not possess.”

“Hm. And what does the book have to do with all this? Any clues as to where to look for the hand?”

“Oh, no, the book isn’t related. I admit, I got rather distracted when I saw that stall, forgot about my mission for a minute. But, honestly, I’m a bit at a loss of what to do, or even where to start looking. I’m not even sure why I came here, in all honesty, but it seemed as good a place as any.”

“Oh. There isn’t some kind of holy scent trail you can follow to find it? You’re an angel, can’t you sense magical objects like this?”

“I did sense it, and that sense brought me to this area, but I can’t really narrow it down any further than that. I’ve reached rather a dead end.” That was the exact opposite of what Crowley wanted to hear. Dead ends were no good. Dead ends did not mean quick and tidy resolutions that would lead Aziraphale to wrap up his business here and leave post-haste.

“I see. Well, don’t give up hope yet. We’re looking for a magical severed hand. Shouldn’t be too difficult, I mean, how many of those do you think are floating around?” Crowley asked, furrowing her brow as the beginnings of a plan began to form.

“We’re looking?” Aziraphale repeated, raising an eyebrow at Crowley, stopping her dead in her tracks. Crowley was a little taken aback, she hadn’t expected him to object.

“Oh, I just thought, you know, I could-“ _don’t say lend a hand_ “- help, if you want. You said you were at a dead end.”

“But you just said you were busy. It sounds like you’ve already got plenty of your own work to do.” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley could have kicked herself.

“Well, yeah, I am. I do.” Crowley said, agreeing hurriedly, not wanting to be caught in a lie.

“But now you’re offering to help me? That would involve taking on a month’s worth of extra work on top of what you’re already doing.”

“Well, it won’t be that much work. A months’ worth of work for you would be a couple of days for me. I’m wily. I think of easy solutions to things. I work smart, not hard.” Crowley said, and she could see Aziraphale open his mouth to protest, so she hurriedly pressed on. “Besides, I know this area really well, and I already know all the criminals in town, so that will make things go a lot smoother.”

“Why are you offering to help me?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing her up with suspicion. “Is this just part of some trick?”

“No! Come on, Aziraphale, have a little trust. Honestly, I just want this town to myself. No offence to you, but if you’re here, it messes up my ability to do my demonic work.” Crowley said, her voice relaxed, nonchalant, like none of this was personal.

“Hm. Well, that makes sense. But still, I don’t think you should get involved.” Aziraphale began to walk away, and Crowley followed him, thoroughly put out. She really hadn’t thought it would be this difficult to persuade him.

“Why not? We’ve done it before, a few times now.” She pointed out, catching Aziraphale’s arm and spinning him around to face her.

“No, not like this we haven’t.” Aziraphale stepped closer, glancing round to make sure no one was listening to them, lowering his voice before speaking further. The fear and urgency in his voice was palpable. “Before now, we’ve both just agreed to sit things out. That was neutral, with no wins or losses on either side. If Hell found out what you did then, you could just plead laziness. This isn’t the same. This would be you working on behalf of Heaven. That’s outright betrayal.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were pleading when they met Crowley’s. He took Crowley’s hands and gave them a brief squeeze, before quickly dropping them. Crowley looked down at where he’d touched her, not sure what to make of that tiny gesture.

“Angel, it’s fine. I won’t get caught, I’m far too clever for that.” Crowley brushed it off, as if she wasn’t in the least bit worried about it.

In truth, she was. She wasn’t the type to underestimate the people she was trying to deceive. She knew that the other demons were suspicious and untrusting by their very nature, and they looked for excuses to tear each other apart. That was why she had safeguards in place. She was already concocting a story in her head for if anyone noticed anything. _I found this magical relic and I was planning on giving it to the most evil human I could find, but before I could, the angel caught me and wrestled it off of me. He was so vicious, I barely made it out alive._

“No, really, it’s too big of a risk. I appreciate the thought, really, it’s a nice offer- “ Aziraphale started, and Crowley snarled, enraged at the word that she’d told Aziraphale time and time again not to use.

“It’s not nice! I’m a demon, I’m not ever nice. I’m not doing this for you out of the goodness of my heart. There isn’t any goodness there. It’s for me, to make my life easier, so stop calling me _nice_.” She growled, prodding Aziraphale in the chest as she spoke until the angel looked as annoyed as she felt. Reining herself in, she let out a breath, and stepped away from him. This was no way to get him to accept her help. Aziraphale gave her a stern look and smoothed out the front of his robes.

“Noted.” He said curtly, and a frosty silence fell between the two of them. Crowley let out a sigh and tried a new tactic.

“Look, I’m not going to do that much. Let me just ask around, see if any of my contacts know anything, ask people to keep their ears open. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know, and then I’ll stay out of your way. I’m not going to try to retrieve it myself. I probably can’t even touch the thing without my skin sizzling if it really is as holy as people think.” Crowley offered, not for a second intending to stick to that promise. Aziraphale looked back at her, and his expression softened.

“Well, I suppose that couldn’t do any harm. As long as you aren’t putting yourself at risk.”

“Great! Meet back here at noon in three days, and I’ll let you know what I’ve found out.” Crowley grinned brightly. She waved a goodbye to Aziraphale and rushed away before he could change his mind.

“Right, well. See you later, then.” Aziraphale shouted after her, watching as she vanished into the crowd, without even a goodbye.

Well, that was just rude. Aziraphale shook his head at her and began walking towards the food section of the market. He was still peckish, even if Crowley hadn’t been interested. Sweet smelling plumes of smoke rose up from the small fires that stalls were cooking over – spitted animals slowly rotating over the flames of some, and huge pots of stew and broth softly bubbling over others.

While Aziraphale lingered, trying to pick what he was going to eat, he couldn’t help but think back to how oddly Crowley had been acting. He - no, sorry, it was she now, wasn’t it? - had been unusually quiet, and her words had been slow and halting, with none of their usual colour. For a second, she’d seemed like herself again, when she’d been yelling at Aziraphale for calling her nice, and then she’d gone back to being strange. And now she was insisting on helping him with his angelic duties, seemingly not caring that she could be killed for doing so.

“Probably because it’s not a real danger for her. Because she’s not actually going to help you. She’s just tampering with your work.” The spectre of Gabriel whispered into his ear. Aziraphale flapped him away, to no avail. Gabriel lingered in the corner of his mind, the judgemental expression on his face not budging an inch.

“She wouldn’t do that. She’s saved me from embarrassment before. Why would she now do something that could get me into trouble?”

“Demons are beings of chaos. What they do doesn’t always make sense, it’s just whatever they think is the most fun at the time. But she could just have been inflating your sense of security before now pulling the rug out from under you.”

“Hmph. You’re wrong.” Aziraphale said, without his usual level of conviction.

He trusted Crowley not to deliberately put him in harm’s way, of course he did, but he wasn’t sure if he trusted Crowley not to mess with him for the sake of messing with him. He wasn’t sure if he trusted Crowley to tell him the truth about why she wanted him gone so badly. He wasn’t sure if he trusted Crowley to tell him the truth about why her behaviour around him had undergone such a dramatic change. Their relationship seemed on rocky ground at the moment, and the more he tried to push past that, make friends and get them back to how they used to be, the more he could feel her pulling away. There was something she wasn’t telling him, and his anxieties had latched onto that something, and were tormenting him with it.

Aziraphale settled on lamb koftas and rice, hoping that if the food he was eating didn’t silence the nagging voices in his head, it would at least distract them momentarily.


	10. Lend A Hand (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale stops being oblivious, and yet somehow still doesn't get it.

The next night, Aziraphale was flying above Tangier, his wings gliding through the crisp autumn air. He was completely invisible, thanks to a rather large miracle he hoped that Upstairs wouldn’t chastise him for, and he was circling the city, looking down and hoping to see any suspicious goings-on, or otherwise nefarious dealings. It was a pretty inelegant method, and one he didn’t really expect to garner results, but he had run out of other ideas.

This wasn’t his usual sort of assignment at all. He usually had the names and faces of specific people he was supposed to influence or deliver heavenly messages to, or specific events he was supposed to help facilitate. Aziraphale had led groups of persecuted humans across deserts, away from their captors, to safety. He’d healed sick humans and fed hungry ones. He’d performed blessings to keep them safe in deadly situations. He was usually good at his job, for Heaven’s sake. But this – find an object and bring it back – was proving to be much more difficult than he had anticipated. Even after he’d narrowed it down to one city, it could be anywhere – buried in a garden, or displaced like a trophy on a mantelpiece, or kept tucked away in a box – and Aziraphale didn’t have the same all-seeing sight that God did, none of the angels did. Even while they were in Heaven looking at the mortal plane, there were things that they couldn’t see. If they could see it, they certainly weren’t giving him any clues.

A tiny, flickering light caught Aziraphale’s eye – in the darkness of the moonless night, it stood out a mile- and he looked to see someone carrying a lantern and sauntering down an otherwise empty street. He swooped lower to investigate, having nothing better to do. All that Aziraphale could see of them was the one pale hand that was holding the lantern aloft, the rest of their body was obscured by a dark cloak wrapped tightly around them, the hood casting shadows over their face. The figure was moving away from the centre of the city, towards the outskirts. They didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry.

Aziraphale kept an eye on them, his wings occasionally beating and lifting him back upwards so that he could glance around, making sure there wasn’t anything more pressing that he should be attending to, before letting himself float back down.

After a while, he realised the figure was heading towards the graveyard, and that really piqued his interest. Why would anyone have any business in a graveyard at this late hour? Aziraphale began to get excited then. If this person was on their way to an illicit dealing in some secretive spot in the dead of night, then maybe it would have something to do with his mission. Or, he might just be spying on a perfectly innocent bereaved human who had decided to visit the grave of a departed loved one at an unusual hour.

He watched them push open the iron-wrought gates of the cemetery and walk inside. Aziraphale’s wingbeats slowed as he let himself sink down, setting himself lightly down on top of a mausoleum, an ornate stone building in the centre of the cemetery. It was the safest place to land – out of the way, and without the risk of tangling in the branches of any of the trees that lines the paths of the cemetery.

The figure pulled back the hood of their cloak, revealing deep red hair, a strong jawline and a wicked smile. The light from the lantern glinted, reflected in the dark glasses the figure wore even at night. It was Crowley. Because of course it was. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and covered his mouth with his hands. He was invisible to the human eye, and although he certainly hoped that the enchantment would work on demons as well, he didn’t know for certain. He didn’t want to risk it. He shrunk back, moving as silently as he could, lowering himself down to the soft dirt of the ground below. The roof of the mausoleum was held up by pillars. He darted between the pillars, and, with one tiny miracle to unlock the wooden door, and another to make sure the hinges didn’t creak as he opened it, he slipped inside. The entrance was set back in the stone, flanked by marble statues, so it wasn’t too risky to leave the door open a crack. He couldn’t see Crowley from his hiding spot, but he could still hear what was going on.

What was Crowley doing in a graveyard? Was this something Crowley was doing for her own demonic purposes, or is this something she was doing to aid Aziraphale in his mission?

“You told her you needed a severed hand. And now here we are, in a field full of human hands just waiting to be dug up.” Gabriel’s voice whispered in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Oh, be quiet.” Aziraphale hissed, more in his head than out loud. “Firstly, don’t be grotesque. And secondly, Crowley wouldn’t lie to me like that.”

“Why not? She’s a demon. Demons lie.”

“Well, obviously she lies, but not to me. Not about things that are really important.” Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot, he knew the sorts of things that Crowley got up to when he wasn’t around. And yet, he had grown accustomed to her not doing any of those things _to_ _him_. He trusted her.

And yet, the doubts still nagged at him. No matter how absurd they were, no matter how much he knew they weren’t true, they still managed to take root in his mind and grow. It didn’t help that he was in this dark and spooky place, with its echoes of human misery, grief and fear all around him. With all that weighing down on his spirit, it was harder to be optimistic and see the good in things. More than that, though, what helped his doubts grow was how strangely Crowley had been acting recently. She’d been weird around him ever since Camelot, and Aziraphale couldn’t understand what had changed then. A lot had happened in those few days, granted, but Aziraphale couldn’t understand why any of it would change Crowley’s behaviour so dramatically.

That was the first time they’d worked together, which was a significant event, but it had been Crowley’s idea, and what was more, Crowley was still insisting that they work together, so it wasn’t as if she’d tried it once and then gotten cold feet. Crowley had mentioned wanting to be a mother and had gotten embarrassed at being a demon and longing for something so undemonic, but she couldn’t _still_ be embarrassed about that. It was two hundred years later, the embarrassment would have surely faded by now. He was sure Crowley wasn’t still embarrassed about Aziraphale overhearing him having sex, either, for the same reason.

And then the only other thing that had happened was Aziraphale had mentioned the tempting, and asked Crowley to knock it off. And that had been a perfectly amiable conversation. Crowley had apologised and agreed to stop, and that had been that. It had been a big relief to Aziraphale, and he couldn’t see that there was anything about that conversation that would have had this effect on Crowley. So why was she acting so strangely?

“Ashtoreth?” An unfamiliar voice, a man’s, called out into the darkness, making Aziraphale jump. 

“I’m here.” Crowley’s voice replied, warmly. “Hello, Kareem. Glad you could make it.”

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, because I am, but why did we need to meet in a graveyard?” The man, Kareem, asked, sounding tired.

“I like the atmosphere.” Crowley’s voice was unreadable, impossible to tell whether she was joking or not, but based on Kareem’s long-suffering groan, Aziraphale suspected she was telling the truth.

“Seriously? Ashtoreth, it was a two mile walk to get here. And you know these are my peak hours.” Kareem said. Aziraphale couldn’t see Kareem, hidden away as he was, but he could sense his aura. Yes, there was annoyance there, but underneath it was affection, seemingly of the platonic kind. Kareem seemed to see Crowley, or Ashtoreth, as he knew her, as a sister – a sister that he respected, cared for, and feared in equal measure.

“I know, and don’t worry, I’ll pay you whatever you would have earned in this time and then some. It’s just that this is a rather sensitive matter, and I wanted to make sure nobody heard us talking. There’s too much of a risk of being interrupted at any of the usual places. I’m looking for something, and I thought you might have heard someone talking about it.”

“You didn’t just set your little ones to work? Kids are usually pretty good at hearing things they’re not supposed to.”

Aziraphale paused at that. Crowley’s little ones? A while ago, Crowley had mentioned wanting children, but she didn’t actually have some now, did she? Was that why she was trying to get rid of Aziraphale so quickly? Didn’t she want him to find out about them?

“I did, but so far they haven’t turned up anything, and this is quite urgent. I need to find it as quickly as possible, and people talk to you. You’re practically a professional gossip.”

“I’m a professional lay, Ashtoreth. The gossip is more of a hobby.” Kareem corrected her, and she laughed. Even as concerned as Aziraphale was about this whole situation, he still appreciated the sound of her laughing, genuine and light, not sarcastic or put on.

“Well, either way, I was wondering, have you heard anything about a severed hand being brought into town?”

“What the fuck, Ashtoreth?” Kareem asked, alarmed and understandably revulsed.

Crowley filled him in as quickly as she could, telling him all about the saint, and her hand, and the strange powers it was thought to possess. Kareem didn’t speak for a while, evidently stunned silent.

“Wow.” He finally said, “Ashtoreth, how do you always get caught up in shit like this? Whenever anything weird happens, it always seems like you’re involved somehow.”

“It’s not my fault. I’m helping a friend out of the pure goodness of my heart.” Crowley said, and there was a beat of silence before the two of them burst out laughing.

“Yeah, right. Evil woman.” Kareem said, fondness in his voice even as he insulted her. At least, Aziraphale would consider evil an insult. Crowley probably thought it the highest compliment.

“No, there’s a wealthy man who heard about it, and decided he wants the thing for himself. He’s paying me to locate it for him.” Crowley lied. Aziraphale supposed he didn't mind being reduced down to a wealthy man who was paying Crowley to help him. It wasn't as if she could tell Kareem the truth about their relationship. 

“Ah. You know, you could just give him a fake. A lot less work, and you’ll get paid either way.”

“No, I’m not doing that.” Crowley said immediately, not thinking about it for even a second. Aziraphale felt his chest loosen, able to breathe easier now that his doubts from earlier had been shown to be unfounded.

“Why not?” Kareem asked, exasperated.

“Because, I have integrity. And a reputation. I want people to come to me and know that they’re getting exactly what they paid for. Besides, there’s too much of a risk of him finding out, and then I’d really be screwed.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but the governor’s wife is sick. On death’s door, even. And, I don’t want to say who, but somebody told me they made quite a lot of money by selling him something he thought would cure her. It might not be the same thing, I didn’t think to ask what it actually was that they sold him, and they didn’t mention anything as gruesome as a saint’s hand. Although, to be fair, if they had, it would have been a mood killer, so I can understand why they wouldn’t.”

“Well, it’s worth looking into, regardless. So now all I have to do is sneak into the governor’s house and steal the thing he thinks is going to cure his dying wife. I should probably cure her myself while I’m there, just so he’s not too angry about the thing disappearing, I don’t want to have to skip town immediately after.”

“Right. I have no idea how you plan on doing any of that, but it’s you, so I’m sure you’ll find a way. But, worst case scenario, and hopefully it won’t come to this, if you do get caught, you’ll be executed. I know you probably don’t want to think about that, but do you have a contingency in place for if that happens? If you died, I don’t know what would happen to the kids.”

“I’m not going to get caught. But, you’re right, there will be a day when I’m not here anymore, and I was rather hoping you would take over teaching them for me. They know you already, and they listen to you.”

“Ashtoreth, I’m honoured, really, but I don’t know if I’m the right person –“ Kareem started to say, discomfort evident in his voice, and Crowley cut him off.

“Just think about it. It’s not going to be relevant any time soon, I promise. But, if your answer is no, I’d appreciate it if you helped me think of someone else who could.”

“Of course. I will think about it.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation continued, but their voices drifted away as the pair left the cemetery and walked away together, the secretive part of their encounter over and done with. Aziraphale stayed put until he was sure that it was safe to come out, laying on the cold marble floor of the mausoleum while he waited. A spider crawled onto his hand, and he gently picked her up, and set her down away from him, not wanting to send her flying later on with his flapping.

Crowley had rejected the notion of lying to Aziraphale out of hand, without a thought. And she was now planning to break into an incredibly important man’s house, and steal what he considered to be the most valuable thing he owned. She was at risk of discorporation from the humans and absolute destruction from the demons if anyone found out what she was doing. And her only motivation seemed to be to get rid of Aziraphale as quickly as possible. He didn’t believe for a second that all this was just so she could have the city to herself. Something else was going on, something that Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to know about. And apparently Crowley had children now, or was teaching them something? Did that have anything to do with why she was acting so strangely? Was she trying to hide this from Aziraphale?

Two days later, Aziraphale was once again back at the market, waiting to meet Crowley like they’d agreed. It was just as busy that day as it had been the first day they’d met, humans all bustling round, all with somewhere to be.

Aziraphale was back at the book stall. The shop keeper recognised him, and was keeping a stern eye on him, but Aziraphale wasn’t put off by it. He loved books, on a deep level he couldn’t quite explain. He loved the way they felt in his hands, heavy and sturdy. He liked closing his eyes and sniffing them, inhaling deeply. Whether they were brand new, the ink barely dried, or old and musty, every book had an individual scent, and he loved each and every one of them. There was a sense of potential with each book. It was the potential to learn, the potential to step into another’s shoes, and be transported somewhere else. It was human knowledge that was etched into the ink and parchment, and Aziraphale marvelled over how they had found a way to turn their thoughts and ideas, the most ephemeral things of them all, into something that could be so permanent, and could still be around long after the human who’d written it was gone. It was all fascinating. Even the stuff that Aziraphale knew to be factually incorrect still had value – it showed an insight into the author’s culture, their mind, and the remarkable ways that humans came up with to try and discover more about the world.

Aziraphale’s reverie was interrupted by the sounds of children shouting and screaming. He looked up, alarmed that a murder was taking place, but relaxed when he realised they were just doing it for fun. The tiny ragamuffins were playing some kind of chasing and catching game, and were being very loud about it, narrating to anyone who cared to listen, and many others who didn’t, exactly who was “it” at any given time.

One of them, a small boy in a green tunic, wasn’t looking where he was going, and, in his eagerness to escape the one designated it, ran smack into Aziraphale. Aziraphale wasn’t harmed in the least, he was too large and sturdy for the child to knock over, but the child bounced back off of him and fell to the ground with an ‘oof’.

“Oh, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, quickly looking the child up and down, making sure there were no serious injuries.

The boy wasn’t physically hurt, but he must have been a bit dazed, because he didn't immediately spring back to his feet like children were want to do. Aziraphale put the book he was holding down, and offered a hand to the young boy to help him up. The boy took Aziraphale’s hand with both of his own, and hauled himself back to his feet, putting rather more of his weight onto Aziraphale than was necessary. Once he was up, he let go, and immediately shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Sorry mister. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He said, before darting off again, following his friends as they fled the scene, taking their game elsewhere.

“Mind how you go next time!” Aziraphale lifted a hand to wave them off, and purely by chance, noticed that it was now bare, a pale strip of untanned skin on his pinkie finger where just a moment ago there had been a ring. Oh, that tiny bastard.

“Get back here this instant!” Aziraphale yelled, chasing after the children. He’d had that ring for almost eight hundred years by this point, and he wasn’t about to let some thieving miscreant carry it off.

The children heard him running after them, and scattered, each of them choosing a different direction to fling themselves in, but that was fine. Aziraphale was only interested in catching the boy in the green tunic. The boy looked over his shoulder, saw the angry principality pursuing him, and sped up, his sandals slapping against the rust-coloured dirt of the ground beneath them. The boy aimed for the busiest parts of the market, hoping to throw Aziraphale off in the crowds. Children were not entirely beholden to the laws of physics, as they hadn’t yet been on Earth long enough for their bodies to learn them, and so it was easy for the boy to disappear into throngs of people, slipping through gaps between bodies that didn’t actually exist. Aziraphale made no effort to do the same.

“Excuse me, please!” He bellowed as he ran, and people had the good sense to do just that as they saw him charging towards them, moving out of his way as quickly as they could.

The boy came out on the other side of the crowd into an emptier side alley, and looked over his shoulder, yelping when he saw that Aziraphale was still right behind him. He dove around a corner, and Aziraphale followed just in time to see his legs being swallowed up by the tarp of a merchant’s tent as he crawled underneath. With a small miracle, Aziraphale had the boy's sandal get snagged, caught in a rip in the tent. As the boy struggled to get free, Aziraphale caught up with him, leaned down, and pulled him back out. 

“No, no, get off!” The boy yelled, thrashing like a freshly caught fish in Aziraphale’s grasp, trying to escape. Aziraphale kept a tight hold of his arm, not so tight that it would be painful, just enough that he couldn’t get away.

“Give me back my ring, and I’ll let you go.” He said, calmly, crouching down so that he was eye level with the boy.

“I don’t have your ring. You’re crazy. Let me go.” The boy protested, still struggling to get away. For a moment, Aziraphale was worried he had caught the wrong boy, then he realised that if that were the case, the child would be screaming for help as loudly as possible. This boy was trying his hardest not to draw attention to them – he didn’t want any sort of authorities to overhear and come and investigate.

“Young man, I saw you take it. And why would you run if you hadn’t?”

“Wouldn’t you run if some weird old man was chasing you?” The boy asked, sticking his chin out defiantly.

“Weird old – well that’s just rude.” Aziraphale huffed, before taking a deep breath. “Listen, there’s no need to fuss. I’m not going to report you or anything like that. I just want my ring back. It’s not worth anything, it just has a lot of sentimental value to me.”

The boy glared at Aziraphale, then glanced around, seemingly trying to find another way out of this situation. When he couldn’t seem to find one, he relented. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the ring, before laying it in Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale examined it for a second, making sure it was definitely his, before sliding it back onto his finger where it belonged.

“Can I go now?” The boy asked, petulant, tugging against the grip Aziraphale still had on him.

“Just a moment. You’re one of the children who go to that school, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asked. If Crowley’s plan hadn’t worked out, then maybe the person who ran this school might be a smart person to talk to. The boy’s dark eyes filled with fear, and he shook his head, frantically.

“No! What school? I’m just on my own, I taught myself how to do this.” He said, tugging at Aziraphale’s grip on his arm ever harder.

“Mm. Whoever is teaching you should teach you to lie better.” Aziraphale said, unimpressed, and the boy groaned, realising he wasn’t going to get away with this.

“Ashtoreth is going to kill me for getting caught.” He whined, more to himself than to Aziraphale. At that name, though, Aziraphale startled.

“Did you just say Ashtoreth?” Aziraphale asked, frowning. Realising his mistake, the boy panicked and stamped down hard on Aziraphale’s foot, making the angel cry out in pain and let go of him, allowing him to dart off at full speed. Aziraphale looked round, but the boy was already gone. Oh well. He’d gotten his ring back, and he didn’t need the boy to answer him. Aziraphale knew what he had heard.

Aziraphale slowly made his way back to the book stand, mulling over what had just happened. When he got there, he saw Crowley, standing beside a wheelbarrow full of leather satchels. She was apparently trying to sell them, but even as she called out to advertise what she was selling, she gave a mean glare to anyone who dared approach her. It was an interesting tactic to say the least.

“Bags, rucksacks, suitcases, purses! If you’ve got a thing that needs to be carried somewhere, I’ve got a thing you can carry it in.” She called out in the same style as the other shopkeepers, though it was obvious she hadn’t thought half as hard about what was going to come out of her mouth as the rest of them did.

He paused, watching her while she half-heartedly acted out this part, putting in just enough effort so as not to draw suspicion to herself. Absurd situation aside, she really was beautiful in this new form. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said so. His heart ached, longing to run his fingers through that long red hair, to caress the new dimensions of her body, to explore with his fingers as well as his eyes. 

When he’d grabbed her hands the other day, it had been for emphasis, to illustrate a point and nothing more. Once her hands were in his, however, it was as if a charge of electricity had passed from her to him, and he’d dropped them. Her skin had been so smooth, and surprisingly soft - had he been expecting them to feel scaly? - and now he just wanted to touch them again. He just wanted to hold her hands with his, and lace his fingers between hers. Aziraphale sighed. Apparently, Crowley hadn’t fixed the temptation problem yet.

“You!” Crowley said, when she finally noticed Aziraphale, startling him, and making his heart pound. “You look like a man who is need of a bag.”

“What? I mean, oh, yes, I am, actually.” Aziraphale played along, to her as if to look through her barrow and see what there was available.

“You also look like a man who’s late. Where have you been? I said noon.” Crowley hissed, her voice low. Aziraphale didn’t want to say how long he’d been stood staring at her, but luckily, he did have another ready excuse for his tardiness.

“I had to chase down one of _your_ pupils after he tried to steal my ring. I got it back, but I had to use a miracle to do it.” Aziraphale said, turning to glare at Crowley. Crowley snort-laughed, too surprised to even try to suppress it.

“Seriously? You’re an angel and you got pick-pocketed by one of my gang? That’s brilliant, oh I’m definitely rewarding that one. Who was it? Oh, wait, you won’t know his name. Describe him.” She said, practically vibrating with glee. Aziraphale frowned. This reaction was not the one he had expected.

“You’re not mad that I found out what you’re up to? Or worried, or concerned, or anything?”

“No. Why would I be? What, are you planning on giving me a lecture about corrupting the youth or something?” Crowley asked, sounding bored at the very thought of it.

“No. Why, should I? Are you corrupting them?” Aziraphale asked, raising an eyebrow at her. Crowley looked offended by the very question.

“No! Trust me, these kids are way better off now I’m here than they were before. Most of them don’t have parents, and the rest do, but they'd be better off without them. I’m just teaching them how to survive, how to look after themselves and each other. I checked with Beelzebub, and she confirmed that whatever muck and grime _my_ soul is covered with, it won’t rub off on the kid’s souls just based on my mere proximity to them.”

“Well, good. And I believe you, Crowley, I’m sure you’re taking very good care of them.” Aziraphale said, before a thought occurred to him. “Although, ‘thou shalt not steal’ is one of the big ones they’re not supposed to break. Aren’t you worried about what will happen to them in the afterlife?”

“I’m not an idiot, Aziraphale, I have a system worked out. Hell isn’t letting me do this because they think they’re going to get the souls of the kids for pick-pocketing. They’re letting me do this because every time one of the kids steals something, they’re inciting wrath in an adult. And as soon as I’m worried that one of them is starting to enjoy stealing too much, or they’ve been around long enough that it’s really starting to have an effect on their soul’s final tally, I send them off. Help them get apprenticeships with tradesmen so they can learn how to provide for themselves properly. And it doesn’t hurt them to learn some tricks in case things go wrong somewhere down the line.”

“Right. Well, as long as you’ve thought it through, and you really aren’t putting them at risk, then I don’t have a problem with it.”

“Thank you?” Crowley said, the end of her sentence lilting up like a question, even though it wasn’t. “I really don’t need your approval, angel, I don’t know what about me suggested to you that I did.”

“But if you don’t care what I think then why did you hide this from me? Or, if it wasn’t this that you’re hiding, then what else aren’t you telling me? Why are you so desperate to be rid of me?” Aziraphale asked, frustrated. The baffled look slid off of Crowley’s face, and was replaced with one of resignation.

“I thought you would be able to figure that out for yourself.” She said, not looking at him. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“Evidently, I do. My dear, I’m sorry, I really don’t know what's going on.” Aziraphale wrung his hands as he spoke, not looking forwards to whatever had caused the sudden change in Crowley's demeanour. 

“Those feelings we spoke about in Camelot. I hadn’t noticed them for thousands of years. And now they’re all I can think about when I’m around you. I’ve been trying to get rid of them. Have you noticed any difference at all?” Crowley asked, sounding helpless. Aziraphale wished he could reassure her, tell her that it was getting better, but he couldn’t, not if he was being honest.

“Ah. No, I haven’t. I can still feel them.” Aziraphale said, hoping that if he tried hard enough, he could stop himself from blushing.

“Exactly. And that’s with me trying as hard as I can to keep them at bay. I just think it would be easier for both of us if we didn’t see each other until I’ve sorted this out.” Crowley said, still not looking at him.

Aziraphale felt a pang of distress, deep in his chest. It had been two hundred years already, and nothing had changed. Was he supposed to stay away from Crowley for another two hundred years? Longer than that? She was his friend, tempting or no tempting, and he didn't want to just up and leave.

Aziraphale let out a sigh. He couldn’t make a fuss now, not when he’d seen first hand the desperation with which Crowley was trying to be rid of him. She was struggling, clearly, and his presence was making it worse. He didn’t want her to put herself at risk like that again. He had to do as she asked, so she wouldn’t have to.

“Oh. My dear, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll stay away, as long as you need.” He said, pausing briefly, before adding, "I hope you know that I'll miss you."

“Don’t worry. We’ll run into each other again eventually. Hopefully by then, I’ll have sorted myself out, and we can have lunch without it being weird.” Crowley’s lips quirked up in a half-smile as she spoke.

She bent down and dug through her barrow, pulling a specific satchel from the very bottom. She handed it to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could feel the heft and weight of its contents. She had found the relic for him, after all.

“Wow. That was fast.” 

“The governor’s wife was sick, and they were planning on using this to heal her. Instead, you healed her, and took this, seeing as they didn’t need it anymore.” Crowley said, quickly filling Aziraphale in on all the important details, no doubt knowing the sort of report that Heaven expected from him now his mission was complete.

“Right. Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled weakly at her. He knew he wasn't being fair to her. She'd just done him a considerable solid, and he owed her a great debt. It was just hard to act pleased about it. He wasn't pleased, not when he knew that this would be the last time he'd see her for the foreseeable future.

Remembering Crowley’s disguise, he pulled several coins from his purse and handed them over, making the exchange look as normal and insignificant as possible to anyone who might be watching.

“Well, have a good day, sir.” Crowley said, nodding at him and picking up the handles of her barrow, and setting off walking, pushing it along as she did.

“Anybody need to purchase any luggage? Sir, you look like a man who has too many coins and not enough pouches to keep them in.” She called as she went, until she was out of earshot.

Aziraphale turned and walked in the opposite direction, setting a brisk pace. He wanted to get back to his accommodation and start writing his report as quickly as possible, while the details were all still fresh in his mind. Hopefully, if he threw himself into his work, he would be distracted from how utterly alone he felt right now.


	11. Have You Tried Magic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale stay away from each other while Crowley tries to get rid of these pesky emotions, going to greater and greater lengths in their attempts. 
> 
> Content warnings - Crowley drinks a lot of alcohol as a way of avoiding emotions. Brief mention of a plague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my wife for agreeing to proof-read my stuff, check my grammar and all round improve it. She's an absolute angel who is 900 miles away from me right now and whom I miss very much <3

Years and years passed. War came to Tangier, as she came to all places eventually, laughing as she went. The sounds of her delight mingled with the screams of those she wounded and killed. She relished in the violence and destruction she caused. Crowley did her best to protect her students, shielding them from the rage that War inspired in people, and helping them resist the lure of the battlefield. War watched, with a baffled and indignant look on her face, as Crowley spirited her students away from the chaos that the Horseman had wrought upon the city. Luckily, the Horseman was a neutral party, bound to neither Heaven nor Hell. She had no way of knowing that Crowley was not acting on Hell’s orders. 

As soon as the last of her students had made it out of the city alive, Crowley abandoned the region, boarding a passenger ship and setting sail. She hoped to land somewhere calmer; somewhere that actually needed her demonic influence. Mostly Hell left her to her own devices, letting her travel the world, spreading sin and degeneracy wherever she went. For the most part, Hell didn’t care about the specifics of where she went or what she did – they were happy as long as they received performance reports detailing her demonic activities every so often. And if she began to exaggerate, bluster, or take credit for things that humans had done entirely of their own volition, well, there wasn’t anyone in Hell knowledgeable enough of Earthly affairs to call her out on it.

The years kept passing, turning to decades and then centuries. All the while, Aziraphale did as Crowley asked, respectfully keeping his distance from her. Sometimes Crowley would feel Aziraphale’s ethereal presence somewhere nearby, but even as the air changed and the sky grew brighter, the angel himself was nowhere to be seen. And then his presence would fade, as the angel left without even a hello or a goodbye, and Crowley would be filled with an inexplicable, aching sadness. She had told him to stay away, had she not? He was only doing what she asked him to do. So why did it sting so much?

Sometimes, the two supernatural entities found themselves at opposite ends of a tricky situation, and they would be forced to interact in order to come to a solution. Most times, the solution would be both of them backing off, but on occasion, Crowley came to Aziraphale’s aid, and once, just once, it was the other way around. On that strange, strange day, Aziraphale took over one of Crowley’s temptations, succeeding where the demon had been on the brink of failing. Crowley stood and watched the angel work his magic on his behalf, and when it was over, Aziraphale turned to him and smiled. In that moment, he felt a glimmer of hope, reawakening what he thought had long been stamped out. Because, in that moment, they were on their own side, entirely separate from Heaven or Hell. It was just the two of them against the rest of the universe. Crowley fixated on this idea, wondering, over and over, why Aziraphale helped him the way that he did. He couldn’t help but wonder - if he’d changed his mind about the Arrangement, was there was anything else he might change his mind about?

He shut that voice up as quickly as he could and said his goodbyes as soon as the business was over. No celebratory drinks, no meals, no catching up chats. Being in love with an angel was humiliating enough while he still had some self-awareness. It would be even worse if he allowed himself the delusion that Aziraphale might actually feel the same way, or that there might be even the slightest possibility that the two of them could share a future together. Such a thing was impossible, a figment of his overactive imagination and nothing more.

But it didn’t matter how much Crowley reasoned with himself, or how much logic he had on his side. At his core was a longing to see Aziraphale that only grew over time. As the centuries passed, his longing became much deeper. Yes, he missed Aziraphale as a person, as a companion, as someone to eat dinner and chat with and make fun of. But he also missed Aziraphale as a constant. As someone who could help him ward off the loneliness. As someone who could help them feel grounded, and less overwhelmed by it all.

Crowley wasn’t averse to change, much the opposite in fact. He enjoyed the introduction of new fashions, and he embraced the invention of new technologies. But change was often a lot less fun than that. People he knew – his friends, his students, his lovers, they all eventually died. And often, it was more than just individual people. Empires fell. Civilisations were destroyed. Cultures were wiped out. Whole languages were erased and faded from existence. As an immortal being, he would never have an endpoint, but the people, places, and things that he loved all did. They stopped, they ended, they belonged to a certain time, and as time moved forward, they stayed behind. Try as he might, he couldn’t drag them into the present with him. He was forced to continue on, with only their memories to keep him company.

Crowley often felt like she was floating along a fast-flowing river, unable to go backwards, or stop, or even slow down. She might try to catch hold of the branches of an overhanging tree, but try as she might, she couldn’t hold on forever. She couldn't stop moving, the current was just too strong. Eventually, it would catch her and sweep her away. Eventually, she would be forced to let go.

When she felt like that, she needed somebody there with her, somebody like her, to hold her hand and watch it all unfold with her. Aziraphale used to be that somebody. Crowley wondered if she had given him something similar – someone to lean against, someone else who understood what it was like to live as an immortal being, in this so very mortal world. What was more, Aziraphale was the one person she didn’t have to lie to. He saw her for who she truly was, and he understood her. 

She missed that feeling of being seen and understood now more than ever. The rate of change was getting faster all the time, and humans kept finding more and more ways to destroy each other. The river wasn’t propelling her along anymore, it was dragging her down and holding her under for long, long stretches, until she came up gasping and spluttering, with her lungs full of dirty water. 

If he wanted to, he could just quit. He had spent over five thousand years with Earth as his primary residence, only returning to Hell to give reports on his progress and to attend the occasional office function. Nobody would bat an eye if he said he was sick of it. He’d be given a letter of commendation for lasting as long as he had and transferred to a cushy desk job of his choosing. There was a way out, if he wanted it. The problem was, he didn’t want it. He liked Earth, and he vastly preferred it to Hell. He wanted to keep living there, amongst the humans. But the only way he could do that and retain his sanity was with Aziraphale by his side. He couldn’t deal with all the turmoil without him. 

Around the middle of the twelfth century, Crowley realised she needed to make things okay between them. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to do that. She despaired over this problem, and her despair led her to a pub. She got there early in the day, paid for a bottle of wine, and gave the bar staff each several gold coins, and strict instructions to bring over a new bottle every time they saw that the old one was finished. She claimed a table in the corner of the room, and sat, and drank, and drank, and drank. 

As the day turned into evening, and the evening into night, the empty pub started to get busy, slowly filling with people. Eventually, strangers were forced to sit beside her and share her table. Crowley resented their presence and the way they inadvertently trapped her and boxed her in. To their credit, they did make attempts to be friendly and draw her into their conversation, but she sat in silence, only wishing that they would go away and leave her alone so that she could succumb to oblivion.

“What’s wrong, chuck? You’re clearly upset over something, so what is it?” The man sat opposite her asked, concern evident in his voice.

Presumably, his concern was over the strange noises that Crowley was making – a horrid gulping sound that lay somewhere between sobbing and hiccuping – and the way Crowley was slumped face down onto the table. At his words, Crowley lifted her head up, blearily trying to match a face to the voice. He swam into view, a sympathetic, paternal look on his well-tanned, moustachioed face.

“I just – there’s this … man.” Crowley started, and there were noises around the table - oohs and ahhs, and good-natured groans, and half-laughs, as if they were all thinking, ‘oh, of course, it’s about a man’. Crowley gritted her teeth and continued. This wasn’t her ideal crowd to be sharing this story with, but she had to get it off her chest somehow. Her words came in stops and starts at first, but the more she spoke, the more she wanted to speak. The wine urged her on and loosened her tongue.

“There’s thisss man. And I just, I miss him. Ssso much. It’s been so long sssince I’ve seen him, and it _hurts_ , and I can’t even blame him for it. I’m the one who told him to stay away, because things were weird. But I’m the one that made them weird! He's just doing what I told him to, but I'm angry at him for it, stupid, beautiful, ridiculous bastard. Why do I have to be in love with him? I just want to get over him. I want things to be normal again, because he’s all I have, and I need him. I need things to go back to normal. I’m just an idiot, we had this great thing, and I ruined it, and it’s my stupid fault, and my stupid feelings, and how do I just get over him? How do I make these stupid feelings go away?” 

“In my experience, darling, the best way to get over an old love is to get under a new one.” A man to her left slurred, his voice suggestive and flirtatious.

The world lurched and spun around Crowley as she turned to face him. She was rather disappointed when she saw an elderly, kind of grubby-looking gentleman sat beside her. He was much too thin, and the lust emanating off of him was half-hearted and lazy, more inspired by the alcohol he’d consumed than by Crowley herself. Not that she was trying to, or expected to, inspire lust. She’d been solidly drinking for eleven hours by this point, and looked thoroughly dishevelled. Her hair had come loose from its intricate styling, and her make-up was smeared over her face and the backs of her hands, as Crowley had long forgotten it was even there and kept rubbing at her eyes.

“Leave her alone, Harold,” someone else scolded him, apparently sick of his attempts to bed anything with a pulse. “She’s obviously not interested.”

“It was just a suggestion! I thought it would help,” Harold said, putting his hands up as if to defend himself.

“It’s fine. Thing is, I’ve tried. Doesn’t matter how many people I sleep with, men, women, both, neither. People who remind me of him, people who couldn’t be any more different. I’ve tried, really, and it doesn’t work,” Crowley said plaintively. She was too caught up in her misery to remember that these people might not have the kindest reaction to the revelation that she’d had sex with women before. 

Luckily, they didn’t seem to mind. A kindly-looking woman beside her reached over and began to rub her back. Crowley’s hackles raised at the unexpected contact, but she soon melted into it. It felt rather nice, even if it didn’t do much to soothe her distressed mind.

“That’s because that advice only works for minor infatuations, not real, deep down love. Those kinds of feelings only go away on their own, with time. You can’t force them away.” The woman rubbing her back told her, and Crowley let out a bitter laugh.

“With time? I’ve given it time, haven’t I? Hundreds of bloody years and nothing’s changed.” Crowley cried, realising too late what she’d just said. A moment passed without any sort of shocked reaction from the humans gathered around her, and she relaxed, realising that they all just assumed she was exaggerating. She laid her head back down onto the table and sighed. None of these humans would be able to help her.

“Have you considered magic?” A different woman asked. Crowley lifted her head back up off of the table, taking in the woman’s somewhat blurry face and the dirty-blonde curls that framed it. 

“Magic?” Crowley repeated, not seeing where this conversation was headed.

“There’s an old witch, by the name of Ebba, who lives in the woods outside the village. She uses plants and herbs to make all kinds of potions and spells and things. Maybe she’s got magic that can make your man fall in love with you,” the curly-haired woman suggested. 

“Don’t mess around with magic. It brings nothing but trouble. Now, what you do, is you get your father to speak to this man of yours and get him to arrange a marriage. He might not love you _now,_ but being married changes things. I didn’t like my Eastmund one bit before we got married, but living with him every day, and seeing how he cares for me, that sort of everyday domestic intimacy inspires a love that courting just can’t.”

“You know, Cornelia, for every story like yours, there’s a dozen that end with both people trapped in an unhappy marriage, shackled to someone they can’t stand.”

Crowley lowered her head back down onto the table, tuning the conversation out and letting them argue amongst themselves. Magic actually wasn’t a bad idea. Not to make Aziraphale fall in love with her. She didn’t think such a type of magic existed, and even if it did, she didn’t want to manipulate Aziraphale like that. Using magic to change his feelings, that would be a violation. What she wanted, what she needed, was magic that could change _her own feelings_. She could use magic to make herself fall out of love with Aziraphale. It seemed obvious now that she’d thought of it. Actually, it was quite embarrassing it had taken her this long. 

Still, that didn’t matter. Now she’d had the idea, she could get started. But she wasn’t exactly sure how. If she wanted to make a human fall out of love with somebody, she could just snap her fingers. But doing that to herself, altering her own mind, that was going to be a bit trickier. She’d never turned her magic back in on herself before. There wasn’t a huge margin of error, and the slightest mistake could be catastrophic. Suppose she tried to erase her feelings for Aziraphale, and instead accidentally erased all her memories of him. She wasn’t about to just start snapping all willy-nilly. She needed to do some research and make a real plan. The humans certainly wouldn’t be able to help her with. No, to do that, she was going to have to return to Hell.

For Crowley, Hell was surprisingly hard to get to. For a human, all they had to do was lead a life that was overall more bad than good, and then die. Any time, anywhere, it didn’t matter. That was not the case for Crowley. Crowley had to travel to one of the official entrances, the closest of which was in the wild forests of the Kingdom of Strathclyde. 

In the middle of the forest, a dark, gaping maw rose up from the ground, an opening into the Earth below. Crowley dismounted from her horse and unleashed it into the wild before she walked into the cave. She didn’t know how long she would be, and she didn’t want to tie her horse up to wait for her if she wouldn’t be back for days or weeks. She had given it instructions on how to live as a kelpie, and when she let it go, she was certain it was going to head straight to the nearest lake and settle nicely into its new life.

The cave was huge, large enough to fit a modest cathedral comfortably inside, and the ground slanted downwards, each step taking her further and further down into the Earth. Crowley snapped her fingers, and a ball of Hellfire appeared in her hand, giving her light to guide her way. She wasn’t worried about anyone seeing her, this place was so remote, there weren’t any humans around for miles.

It was ridiculous, really, going to all this trouble to hide an entrance to Hell in the pitch-black darkness of a cave in the middle of a forest, when only a demon could access it anyway. If a human wandered in here, for whatever strange reason they might have to do that, they wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Human feet would feel muddy, rocky ground beneath them and would splash through the puddles left behind when the rain had blown into the caves. Only a demon such as Crowley could sink into the water, as if there was a great abyss beneath the surface, rather than it being only ankle-deep. Only a demon could emerge on the other side of the water completely dry, the ball of Hellfire still happily blazing in her hand, to find herself at the top of a great spiral staircase. The staircase was carved into the ground before her, that descended as far as the eye could see. Only demons could walk down that staircase and travel to the underworld. Given all that, maybe it was worth requesting an official entrance that was closer to civilisation, Crowley mused as she walked down the steps.

As she got closer, she could smell the torment of the damned human souls on the air, and her forked tongue flickered out of her mouth to taste it. It was delicious, even if she did feel guilty for enjoying it. This was the suffering of bad humans, she reminded herself. It was universally agreed that they deserved it. 

Being back in Hell was a weird feeling. There was a well of energy here, ready to be tapped into at any moment. She felt revitalised, like her demonic fuel tank was being topped up. And yet, even while her body was responding positively to her location, she still didn’t feel like she belonged there. She still wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible.

Down, down the stairs she went, occasionally walking past doors of varnished mahogany set right into the face of the rock. None of them were for the department she wanted until she came to one with a golden plaque that read _Archives_. Crowley let herself in, hoping she’d find it empty. Unfortunately not. Dagon, Master of the Files, was sat at her desk, busy at work. Her office was in an antechamber, and beside her desk was the door that led into the archives. Hell was nothing if not bureaucratic. Any time a demon experimented with a new kind of magic, notes were diligently taken. A copy of every single piece of information that demons had collected over the years existed in the archives. If ever a demon had attempted to alter their own mind before, there would be evidence of it through that door. But between her and the door sat Dagon.

For an insane moment, Crowley thought she might be able to sneak past without Dagon noticing. But as she stepped forward, the heels of her boots clacked on the stone floor, and Dagon's head shot up. Her big blue eyes locked onto Crowley, widening further than Crowley would have thought possible. After a beat, Dagon smiled, though that was no more comforting than the surprised staring had been. Crowley had once seen Dagon take hold of someone's rib cage and break it open with the relaxed ease of someone tearing into a fresh loaf of crusty bread, smiling the whole time. Crowley tried not to let it bother her. She smiled back, wide and unpleasant, making sure that Dagon could see the sharpness of her fangs in the process.

“Crowley. Your performance report isn’t until next month.” Dagon said, side-stepping a greeting, and instead demanding to know why she was there. Dagon didn’t like Crowley, that was quite obvious. And unsurprising. Demons, on the whole, weren’t known for liking each other.

“No, I know. I’m here because I wanted to do a little reading,” Crowley said, trying to act casual, walking further into the room without being invited, and leaning sideways against Dagon’s armoire. Dagon gave a low growl, and Crowley rightened herself, with the air of a cat who had intended to that anyway.

“A little reading? Are you asking to look through the records _for fun_? What are you up to Crowley?” Dagon asked, her suspicion evident. She hadn’t blinked since Crowley had stepped foot in the room.

“Yeah, see, I’ve got this scheme going. I’ve been sneaking into scholar’s rooms late at night while they’re alone and working on their thesis on philosophy or religion or whatever, and I’ve been whispering dark secrets to them. Little bits and pieces drip down through their subconscious, and end up in what they write. So far, it’s just unsettling truths about the universe. But then it hit me, I could get them to sneak some unholy magic into their work - rituals or spells or whatever. And if I did it right, whenever the work was read, a little bit of demonic power would be unleashed into the world.” Crowley said, the lie easily rolling off of her tongue. Dagon seemed to consider this.

“Sounds evil enough, if you don’t fuck it up,” she allowed, finally. “But that still doesn’t explain why you need access to the archives.”

“Well, I don’t know what sort of dark magic I want to give them yet. I thought I’d have a bit of a browse to get some inspiration,” Crowley said. Dagon stared at her for a second, mulling it over, before sighing, and retrieving a visitor’s log from a drawer beneath her desk. It seemed like she’d been looking forward to shutting down Crowley’s request but couldn’t find a good reason to say no. 

“Sign here now, and then again when you leave. Oh, and you can’t take anything away with you without my express permission, and a deposit to ensure that you really will bring it back.” Dagon said, her voice tinged with irritability as she handed Crowley the log.

“What sort of deposit?” Crowley asked, curiously. If the material she wanted to check out wasn’t too suspicious, it might be safer to do the magic on Earth.

“Varies from demon to demon. For you, I’d say your right hand.” Dagon said. Crowley pointedly did not recoil and instead scribbled her name in the log.

_Name: Crowley. Reason for visit: research for causing mischief, torment and general calamity._

“What sort of thing are you looking for, anyway?” Dagon asked, putting the log back in its drawer.

“Oh, I’ll know it when I see it,” Crowley said, breezily, heading towards the door.

“In other words, you have no idea. Just make sure to put everything back where you found it once you’re done. And stay away from the books marked do not touch. They were bound with human skin, and they still scream when they’re opened.” Dagon got up from behind her desk and opened the door to the archives.

There was a rattling sound, and through the open door, Crowley could see room after room moving past at breakneck speed. She let out a low whistle, fully appreciating for the first time exactly how vast the archives really were, and how much knowledge was stored in them. There must be hundreds of rooms, spanning miles and miles, and Dagon was able to summon the room she wanted right to her office door. Must save a lot of time walking, Crowley reasoned, fairly impressed. The rooms suddenly lurched to a halt, and Dagon gestured for her to enter. 

“Here’s the section on magic that humans are capable of using themselves. You might find something useful in there,” Dagon said. Crowley thanked her and, with more than a little apprehension, walked inside.

Crowley looked around herself as she walked in. The shelves seemed to go up further than her vision could follow, up to the impossibly high ceilings. One thing that demons were particularly good at was manipulating dimensions; fitting big things in small spaces. She glanced behind herself and was relieved to see that Dagon had gone back to her desk. The other demon had better things to do than keep an eye on Crowley. The shelves were filled to the brim with books, scrolls, and, in the really old sections, stone tablets. 

In between the stacks and the shelves, there were occasional tables and chairs, which Crowley was thankful for. She grabbed a few books at random so that she could pretend to be reading those if Dagon happened to come in and check on her. She then started looking for what she was really interested in – the weird shit that demons did to themselves and each other when they weren’t on duty. If she was currently in the human magic section, then surely demonic magic must be close by. Where exactly, though, Crowley had no clue. There were no signs, or maps, and no numbers on the shelves. 

The shelves were labelled, but they were indecipherable abbreviations and code words. Crowley scanned the spines of books, working out how the sections were divided based on their contents, which was an entirely backwards way of doing things.

Dagon was the Lord of the Files, but she was also the Master of Torment. As such, she was meticulous and sadistic in equal measure. Crowley was sure that Dagon knew exactly where every single book, file, and document was kept. She was also fairly certain that this filing system had been designed to drive anyone who tried to understand it into madness. She was willing to bet that it had worked in the past. 

A few rooms over, Crowley stumbled across several boxes, that, when opened, turned out to be full of replacement body acquisition forms, filled in by demons after they had been discorporated and needed new bodies. A brief glance at them showed that each form had an essay section, where the demon had to explain exactly how their previous body had been discorporated. Crowley used one of the boxes as a seat and began to leaf through these forms, unable to resist the absolute stupidity of the stories they contained. She put her search on pause to snicker and cackle at the misfortune of other demons, occasionally wincing sympathetically at anything that sounded particularly painful. It seemed like she wasn’t the first person to see the entertainment value in these pages. They looked like they’d been read and re-read a lot over the years. Many of the pages were dog-eared, and some of them had things scribbled along the margins, mostly jokes, or things like _he wasted a perfectly good body like THIS and he’s still a Duke? I’d have been demoted if I’d done this!_

As Crowley was reading through these forms, she noticed that a hefty stack of them had been hole-punched and strung together with treasury tags. She soon realised why, as each of them was from the same date. All within the same five minutes, even. She found a no-longer-sticky sticky note in the box that had once been placed on the front page of the stack.

 _On July 1_ _st_ _, 440 A.D, ten demons were simultaneously and hideously discorporated in what later became known as the Greylag Incident. The full account of this event can be found in Records of Experimental and/or Unapproved Magic (R. Exp. Unapp. Mag.)_

Crowley stood up. Whatever the Greylag Incident was, she needed to know more about it, immediately. It sounded absolutely hilarious. It was only when she had located the Records of Experimental and/or Unapproved Magic that she realised that someone trying out an anti-love spell on themselves for the first time would probably be both experimental and unapproved. Maybe they’d been kind, or meticulous, enough to file a report about it after the fact. She grabbed the E-G box for Greylag, L-N for Love, and then, as an afterthought, R-U for Unwanted, then made her way to the closest table to dig through them all. 

Several hours later, she was tired of reading, thoroughly disturbed by the knowledge that now burdened her about the events of July 1st 440 A.D, and close to giving up. She put the file she’d been reading down, and placed her head in her hands. It struck her that this is exactly the kind of activity that Aziraphale would relish. He was like a ferret when it came to finding the one pertinent piece of information in pages and pages of irrelevant waffle. Did ferrets find things? Crowley thought they did, but she wasn’t sure. Regardless, when Aziraphale had a good book in his hands, he could go for days without sleeping, without eating, without doing anything except reading. 

She’d seen him once, years before, sat in a café with a book in his hands, oblivious to everything happening around him. She had sat opposite him, ordered her food, eaten it, and paid the bill by the time he’d even noticed her. He’d looked up from his book, apparently taking a moment to absorb and consider what he'd just read, and he'd let out a terrified squawk when his eyes finally fell on her, startled to suddenly see someone sat so close to him. He'd been terribly embarrassed and apologised repeatedly, “I wasn’t ignoring you, my dear, I promise,” but for some reason, she hadn't been bothered by it. She’d found the whole thing endearing.

That sort of intense concentration would be useful now. She could just set him at these boxes and leave him to it, and he’d be sure to have a grand old time. It would have been a decent plan, if not for the fact that she was in Hell, and she wouldn’t be able to take any of these boxes away with her without leaving one of her hands behind.

“Give it ten more minutes, and if I haven’t found anything, I’ll take a nap,” she promised herself, rubbing her eyes before picking up another file. It was an old report, the pages yellowed and warped with age. She skimmed the title page, and her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, not until she was sure of what she had found. But based on its title, it seemed to be exactly what she was looking for. She laid it carefully onto the table, as if worried that any sudden movement would cause it to burst into flames, and the knowledge contained within it to be lost forever. She opened it, smoothed down the pages, took a deep breath, and began to read. 

***

A Treatise on the Mechanism for the Removal of Unrequited Affections 

The author of this document chooses to remain anonymous.

Introduction

It goes without stating that demons are creatures of inherent magical power. This power allows us to manipulate and alter the physical world. The extent to which individual demons are capable of performing these feats varies, but broadly speaking, demons are able to:

  * change locations and travel great distances (teleportation)
  * conjure and displace objects
  * cause things to explode or catch fire (pyrokinesis)
  * read the thoughts and emotions of humans (telepathy) and control their minds and actions (hypnosis, possession)
  * and change the size, quantity and appearance of our own bodies, usually from a true form into one more palatable for humans.



This list is of course non-exhaustive and exists only to illustrate just how much demons can do. It is only while considering what demons can do, that we can fully appreciate our limitations. Demons cannot alter their own minds, thoughts, or emotions with their own magic. (Demons can move from vessel to vessel, but the author of this document does not consider a liquid that has merely been poured from one cup into another to have been "altered".)

I discovered this limitation while trying to remove unrequited emotional affection for another demon from my psyche. Despite any other form of magic being accomplished by sheer force of will, no matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to remove these unwanted emotions from my own mind. Many times I tried to banish the emotions just as I would an unwanted physical object, but while a physical object would disappear at a mere suggestion, the emotions remained.

I suspect that the part of the mind that I was trying to alter refused to cooperate, thus rendering my own magic useless. When using our abilities, to gain the desired result, we need focus and a clear plan of action. If part of the mind is resisting, our thoughts may be confused and conflicted, making magic impossible. Therefore, the inability to remove the feelings magically is a result of a psychological block, not the result of the desired magic being physically impossible. In other words, it is not that the magic doesn't work, it is that the magic is _refusing_ to be turned on our own minds. This is a mechanism designed to protect us from ourselves. 

However, sometimes a demon needs to remove or alter part of their own minds. In such a case, the magic will need to come from outside ourselves. To remove the unrequited affections from my own mind, I put together a ritual that allowed me to call on the magic of this plane, thus circumventing my own mind’s defence mechanisms. 

It is important to note that when using your own magic, you do not have to be careful with how you ask for it, because you understand your own intentions. If you say the wrong word, it doesn’t matter, because you already know what you were attempting to convey. With an external source of magic, however, you need to be specific, as a wrong word could change the meaning, and thus, the outcome. If you're choosing to use this spell yourself, I recommend that you copy these instructions exactly, word for word. If you are foolish enough to ignore this warning, I take no responsibility for whatever fate may befall you.

***

Crowley leaned back and let out a long exhale. The rest of the pages were full of very specific instructions that apparently needed to be followed to the letter. She couldn't take this outside of the archives with her, so she'd have to perform the ritual here. She didn't want to be interrupted, and she really didn’t want to have to explain to Dagon what she was doing, so she snapped her fingers and time stood still. At least, she thought it did. It was hard to tell, and she'd never tried stopping time in Hell before. She picked up one of the boxes she'd already looked through, stood up, held it out in front of her, and let go. It stayed exactly where it was, suspended in mid-air, patiently waiting for time to start again so that it could tumble to the ground.

Satisfied, Crowley began to perform the ritual as the book described. Chalk circles and symbols were drawn on the floor, candles were lit, drops of blood were spilled. Crowley stepped into the circle, and felt the air around her crackle with an energy that was not her own. It was an ancient energy - older than even herself - and had been around since the beginning of everything. It wasn't exactly alive, but it wasn't exactly not, either. It had gained some form of intelligence, or understanding of its surroundings, purely on the basis of having been around for so long. It had seen _everything:_ the events of Hell and Earth, and perhaps even Heaven as well. Despite that, communicating with it was mostly one way. Requests were made, and they were either granted, or they weren't. The reasons why weren't given.

Crowley took a deep breath and said the words that the book had told her to, reciting them perfectly. The magic that was not her own flooded into her body, into her mouth and nose, and down her throat. It was ice cold and fiery hot all at once, and all Crowley could do was stand there and take it. She had invited it into herself and now it was doing its job. It was burrowing into her, seeking out that which it had been asked to remove. She felt uncomfortably full and hollowed out all at once. It coated the backs of her eyes and began probing the crevices of her mind. 

Her surroundings became hazy, and then began to change, but she knew instinctively that she had not left the archives. She was reliving old memories, finding herself in familiar locations she hadn't visited in years. The energy rifled through her thoughts with the casual air of someone shuffling cards. Thousands of years worth of memories were being examined within minutes. It was almost making her dizzy. The world around her began to blur, changing so fast she almost couldn't keep up. 

So many of those memories were of Aziraphale, of dinners and drinks and fights and laughter at long-forgotten jokes. He flitted in and out of her line of sight, disappearing and then reappearing in different tunics, and robes, and suits of armour. Crowley watched him as he went, as they moved backwards through her memories of him. Each of those memories was bittersweet, coated with a fierce love and longing, so intense it bordered on painful, and the harsh, grating knowledge that Aziraphale would never feel the same way. Crowley closed her eyes, and let her head hang down while she waited for those feelings to evaporate. 

Nothing happened. 

Crowley opened her eyes, and looked up to see Aziraphale's wing above her, shielding her from the first raindrops ever to fall on the Earth. She shivered at his closeness. They'd stopped moving now, frozen in time on the wall of Eden. She remembered how she'd felt the first time around. Aziraphale had been a stranger to her, and worse, an angel, yet she hadn't been afraid. They'd both been fresh from the war, with absolutely no reason to talk to each other, yet she'd teased him and reassured him, and they'd made each other smile. There had been a sense of ease to that first interaction that Crowley hadn’t felt around Aziraphale in a long time.

"It's him!" Crowley blurted out, unable to keep quiet anymore. She knew she probably shouldn't have spoken, but now she'd started, she couldn't stop. "If you haven't figured it out yet, it's him. It’s Aziraphale, the Angel of the Eastern gate. He's the one I love and he doesn't love me back. So, get rid of it. Get rid of my love for him so I can get on with my life."

There was a terrible silence that stretched on longer than Crowley could bear. And then, with the same unpleasantness with which it had arrived, the energy left. It fled her body, pouring out of her, leaving her to cough and splutter, feeling uncomfortably drained and strangely, whole again. Her knees buckled, and she fell forwards, her hands shooting out to catch herself before her face hit the floor.

"Breathe. Just breathe," she told herself. She didn't need to, but it certainly couldn't hurt, and after what had just happened, she could use the reassurance of it, the feeling of air rhythmically moving in and out of her lungs. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She let it remain there. Once she felt more in control of her limbs, she pushed herself upright until she was kneeling on the ground. She was back in the archives, not that she’d ever really left. The energy was gone now, and she felt very much alone. 

"Is it-? Did it work?" She asked, shakily. 

There was a moment, between heartbeats, where she didn't know. A moment where she felt nothing at all, and if she could have, she would have lived forever in that nothingness. She would have carried it with her, wrapping it around herself like a cloak, like protective armour, and gone on with her life, not feeling anything. However, she couldn’t do that. The moment passed. Her heart beat again, and Crowley knew that it had not worked. Her feelings for Aziraphale were exactly as they had been before the ritual started. 

“Fucking Hell!” She groaned, and her hands clenched into fists. She didn’t know what had gone wrong. Had it been her words? If she’d been able to keep her mouth shut, would it have worked? Maybe she’d been too aggressive, maybe she should have said please. Crowley had no idea.

Letting out a roar of frustration and anger, she seized up a book, and hurled it across the room. Or at least, she tried to. It hung in the air after she let go of it. Fucking fuckity fuck! She couldn’t even have a tantrum properly! Crowley started time again, wanting to see the book soar and slam against a shelf and maybe knock something over. 

As soon as time started again, though, the box of files that had been suspended in the air hit the ground with a mighty thud. The thud echoed and reverberated throughout the rooms, and Crowley winced, filled with a sudden regret. She held her breath. Maybe Dagon hadn’t heard.

No such luck.

“Crowley? What are you doing in there?” came Dagon’s shrill voice, and Crowley’s eyes widened in alarm. She glanced around herself and realised that she couldn’t look any more incriminating if she tried. 

“Oh, sorry, I just knocked a box over. It’s fine, nothing to worry about!” Crowley called back with what she hoped was a relaxed voice. Frantically, she started to try and remove any evidence that anything untoward had happened. With a finger snap, the chalk marks on the ground disappeared, the flecks of white chalk blowing away and turning to dust. Another snap and the candles were extinguished and sent away.

“Where are you?” Dagon yelled. Crowley swore under her breath. She grabbed the useless report off the table, snapped it shut, and shoved it back into the box she’d found it in. With a wave of her hand, the box was zooming back to the shelf it lived on.

“Oh, you know, I’m not sure. I was just wandering around, I got a bit lost,” Crowley replied, stalling. 

A minute later, the whole room gave an unsettling lurch, before zooming off. Dagon had called it back to her. There must have been some sort of enchantment that kept the books from flying all over the place, because though the shelves rattled, nothing toppled off. The same enchantment did not apply to Crowley. She stumbled and fell as the room hurtled through space at the whims of an angry fish. She managed to make it back onto the chair, and then clung to it for dear life. As an afterthought, she grabbed a book that Dagon wouldn’t mind her reading, and opened it to a random page.

The room ground to a halt, and Dagon entered, walking over to Crowley’s table. Her eyes scanned the area and seemed disappointed to find that there wasn’t anything out of place. Crowley didn’t get up, instead turning in her chair to face Dagon. She shot Dagon an annoyed look.

“Some warning would have been nice. I almost lost my lunch,” she said, with the indignant tone of a person who hasn’t done anything wrong but is being interrogated anyway.

“What are you looking at?” Dagon asked suspiciously. Crowley glanced down at the book she was supposed to be reading. 

“It’s a book on plagues,” she said, hoping Dagon wouldn’t have any follow up questions. She almost certainly wouldn’t be able to answer them. 

“Plagues, hm? You won’t be able to get monks or whoever to unleash a plague on the world by slipping spells into their work. That’s not the sort of magic humans have access to,” Dagon pointed out. Crowley sighed in relief and realised too late that that was the wrong thing to do. Hurriedly, she started talking, trying to mask it as a sigh of disappointment.

“Ah, bollocks, you’re right. I guess this was a waste of time. Pity. Big plague fan, me. It’s been a while since we’ve had a good one,” Crowley said, babbling somewhat. 

Dagon stared at her, a thoughtful expression on her face. Crowley swallowed, and tried not to wilt under the strength of Dagon’s gaze, instead staring right back. Finally, Dagon smiled.

“It might not have been an entire waste of time. Humans can’t use magic to start a plague, but we can. I could suggest to Lord Beelzebub that we should cook something up. Something really deadly,” Dagon said, starting to look excited at the prospect.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.” Crowley protested weakly, feeling an entirely different type of dread now.

“Oh, I do. You’re right, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good plague. And Lord Beelzebub’s been in a bad mood recently. This is exactly the sort of thing that would cheer zir up. Thanks for the idea, Crowley,” Dagon said, beaming. It seemed like she was planning on taking the credit in front of Beelzebub, and honestly, Crowley was fine with that. She didn’t want anything to do with this. 

“Oh. Uh, glad to be of assistance,” Crowley said, feeling vaguely queasy. She wanted to leave right away. She stood up and headed for the door. 

“Wait, Crowley. Did you find what you were looking for?” Dagon called after her. _No_ , Crowley thought bitterly. She turned around and faced Dagon as she walked backwards out of the archives.

“Oh, um, you know, I think I’m just going to convince the monks to write about the Greylag Incident. I think it’s horrifying enough that anyone who reads about it is going to have their soul irreparably altered. Unleashing that information onto the humans, it’ll pour a lot of darkness out into the world.” Crowley said. Dagon seemed to consider this for a second, before shuddering. 

“Yeah, I think you’re right. That would definitely do it. Terrible work as usual, Crowley.” Dagon snapped her fingers and the books that still remained on Crowley’s table flew back to their rightful places. Crowley’s chair tucked itself back under the table, and Dagon followed Crowley out of the archives. 

“Satan, the Greylag Incident. I’d forgotten about that,” she muttered to herself in an undertone, shuddering again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's pronouns changed a lot at the beginning of this chapter to reflect how they lived as different genders at various different points in time. I hope this didn't effect the read-ability of it, or make it confusing in any way. Let me know what you thought!


	12. Unsent Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Aziraphale has been up to during this time is revealed, Aziraphale develops a coping mechanism, and our faves are reunited in strange circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife very kindly continued to proofread and edit this for me, so big thanks to her. She's on twitter as @olasloucifer, follow her if you like communism, vines and aro/ace positivity posting.

In the years after their conversation in Tangier, Aziraphale threw himself into his work with renewed vigour. Like Crowley, Aziraphale travelled the world. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale didn’t choose his own path, but instead went where Heaven indicated his heavenly influences would be needed. 

Aziraphale dedicated himself to his angelic work. He led groups of refugees across deserts, blessed crops to keep them from failing, even once delivered a baby in a tiny wooden shack while a blizzard raged outside. All the while, he tried to be of a single mind, ignoring the loneliness that ached in his chest, focusing only on the humans under his charge and the orders he received from Heaven. 

Over time, however, Aziraphale realised that it would be better for the humans if he influenced them to try to help each other, rather than always intervening directly. Humans actually benefited from doing good things. It didn’t just give their souls a bit of a polish; it increased their morale and made them feel better about themselves and about the world. If Aziraphale influenced one human into helping another, then the human that he had influenced would (hopefully) see the good that they had done, and be encouraged to keep doing good things, even when Aziraphale was no longer there. 

Aziraphale explained his reasoning to the other angels, and they agreed. If you help one human, you’re acquiring one soul for Heaven. If you encourage one human to help another, you’re acquiring two souls. With the Archangels’ permission, then, Aziraphale took a step back, and only personally interfered as a last resort, when only a miracle would work – to heal the sick, or to guide a ship through a storm that was determined to sink it. In doing so, he freed up a lot of his time, and it became much harder to ignore the loneliness that ached in his chest and burrowed its way into his core, carving out a permanent home for itself. 

Aziraphale had human friends, of course, and he liked spending time with them. More often than not, though, those same friends were part of the problem. You see, the more time he spent around his human friends, the more Aziraphale realised that he envied them. Their lives were short, yes, but in that shortness, they found meaning. Their lives were exciting, full and vibrant, and, compared to his own, uncomplicated. They were so much freer than he was. Humans didn’t have to worry about the logistics of following a plan that, by definition, was impossible to understand. Not only that, but they were allowed to love each other in a way that was completely off limits to him. And this problem he was having with Crowley, the temptation that he felt when Crowley was around, was a problem that he would never be having if they were both human. Humans didn’t have the sort of magic that could accidentally be used on each other.

One evening sometime in the thirteenth century, this all came to a head. 

Aziraphale was at home in his cottage, drinking a bottle of wine, and eating a plate of fine cheese, and thinking how much better both the cheese and the wine would be if he had someone to share them with. Guilt twinged in his stomach at the thought, and he tried to assuage it.

“I didn’t say who. I just said someone. I didn’t have anyone specific in mind,” Aziraphale said, defending himself to his empty cottage.

He quickly deflated, though. He knew it wasn’t true. Aziraphale didn’t want some vague, faceless, Heaven-approved being. He wanted Crowley. 

It had been decades since Aziraphale had last seen Crowley, but it had been centuries, more than half a millennia since their last meaningful conversation. Their most recent meeting had been utterly depressing. They had treated each other like strangers, and neither of them said a word that wasn’t about the work they were doing. And then, they had parted ways. The whole encounter had maybe taken five minutes, total. Those five minutes were the most agonising Aziraphale had had in years. 

The temptation problem still hadn’t been fixed. In fact, it was worse than ever. Aziraphale had yearned to take Crowley’s hands, pull them closer and kiss them, to bite at the shell of their ear and bury his face in their hair. It was all he could do to keep his expression neutral with all that going on in his head. Even after Crowley had left, and for weeks after he’d seen them, Aziraphale found himself revisiting unholy fantasies of the two of them entwined. He could still remember the pink camellia Crowley had had tucked behind one of their ears.

In spite of all that, though, in spite of the problems he knew were there, Aziraphale found himself missing Crowley fiercely. Despite all their faults, Crowley was his friend – arguably the only true one he had. For hundreds of years, loneliness had been ever-present in the background of Aziraphale’s life. After a while, he had gotten used to the loneliness, like one gets used to the sound of a leaky pipe drip-drip-dripping. He just tuned it out. Recently, however, the leaky pipe had burst, and the dripping had turned into a gushing torrent – urgent and loud and impossible to ignore. 

Aziraphale could contain his feelings no longer. He moved over to his desk, finished the bottle he was currently working on, and popped the cork off a second. After a glass or two to build his nerve, he began writing. 

_To the wily and most devious serpent, C, your Earthly companion, A, sends greetings and wishes for every good fortune._

_Forgive my not using our full names and titles. I didn’t want to reveal too much, for fear of this letter falling into the wrong hands - we wouldn’t want anyone to find out about our arrangement, after all. Wise and cunning as you are, I’m sure you understand the need for privacy over proper letter writing etiquette._

_I hope you don’t mind my writing to you. I know it would be a struggle to see me in person right now, and I respect that. I don’t want to make things harder on you than they already are. Hopefully a letter won’t hurt, since you won’t have to worry about accidentally tempting me while reading this. You know, it occurs to me that this whole dilemma is a testament to the sheer power of your magic. Strange that things might be easier for us if you weren’t so talented._

_In truth, I’m writing this because I miss you. I think of you often, and I wonder where life has taken you, and what mischief you might be getting up to. Whenever I hear about some faraway humans and their antics, I can’t help but wonder if you were behind it. I know that most likely you weren’t – humans are plenty capable of being wicked without your input, after all. Sometimes I hear about things, though, and it just sounds so very you. Such as, when that town in Shropshire put a swarm of mice on trial for eating all their crops. In criminal court, no less! They rounded the mice up into cages and made them take the stand. One particularly unfortunate soul had to act as their legal counsel and defend them. It was all rather ridiculous. I heard about that and couldn’t help but wonder, “is C behind that?” I mean, I wondered if you were the one who convinced them to make the mice stand trial, not that I wondered if you were the mice. Of course, it's equally likely that the humans did it all on their own, or that it was actually one of your colleagues, but still, the thought that you might have had something to do with it made me smile._

_I probably shouldn’t say in too much detail what I’ve been up to, otherwise I might as well have used my name. But, the vague, short version is I’ve been bobbing about around this wonderful little planet we call home, helping humans, and tasting lots of wonderful food wherever I can. Oh, and I learnt to play the fiddle, too! It’s a delightful little instrument, and the music it produces is so jaunty and merry. I can give you a demonstration next time I see you, if you like. I mean, after you’ve solved our problem. I do hope you figure it out soon, my dear._

_Whenever someone else from downstairs pops up onto this plane, I always think about how much more fun you are than them. You probably already knew that other beings occasionally come up to wreak havoc. Maybe what you didn’t know is they come and pester me sometimes. I’m the opposition, after all, and I think it’s a game to them to come and ‘poke the bear’, as it were. It never gets physical, they never try to actually fight me; they just try to annoy me. They frequently succeed._

_None of them stay up here for very long. Very few of them seem to enjoy it like you and I do. They only stick around long enough to cause some trouble, and then they bugger off back home. There’s this one that came up recently who’s been giving me trouble. Enoch, his name is. Maybe you know him? If you’ll pardon the language, he’s a little shit._

_Anyway, my point was, seeing them pop up makes me think about you. About how the first time I interacted with some from downstairs, it was you, and what good luck that was. The past few millennia wouldn’t have been nearly as fun if someone else had been sent to do the business with the apple. We are on opposite sides, so perhaps it’s wrong of me to admit this, but I am glad of you, my dear. You’re the best hereditary enemy one could ask for._

_Forgive me for getting sentimental like this. In truth, I’m a wee bit tipsy. It’s a wonderful red I’m trying right now. It’s a first pressing, of course. You know I prefer to only drink the best. (Not like you, slamming coins down onto bar counters, demanding to be brought whatever is the highest proof, and guzzling the whole bottle down in the time it takes the poor barkeep to bring us glasses. Centuries later and I still don’t think I’ve recovered from the embarrassment.) This particular vintage is full-bodied, and wonderfully fragrant. It’s plummy, almost bordering on sweet, and decently heavy on the tongue. Truly delicious! I think you’d like it._

_I do hope you’ll be able to solve our little problem soon. Although I wonder, if perhaps there’s a reason we haven’t been able to solve it. I’ve said on many occasions that it’s best not to speculate about ineffability, and I do still believe that, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder. I have faith in the Almighty, absolute faith. It would just be nice if she spoke to us more. She doesn’t speak directly to us, she leaves us signs. She must have a good reason for doing this, of course. Still. It would be nice to get some sort of clarification occasionally. Just a hint. A nudge in the right direction._

_The thing about signs is (are?) that they’re so open-ended and vague. It can be hard to assign a meaning to any of it. And these signs, I do wonder if some of them are purely red herrings, that she sent to throw us off the trail and point us in the wrong direction. She did that with the dinosaur bones, you know. Those huge bones that humans dig up sometimes, and invent all sorts of funny stories to explain how they got there, they’re all part of a huge cosmic joke. And I can’t help but wonder, if that’s a joke, what else is? I don’t know. I’m sure it will all be worth it, in the end. Maybe She doesn’t play dice with the universe. Maybe it’s more of a really big scavenger hunt, where the Almighty has hidden clues everywhere and the rest of us are trying our best to find them and solve them, and when it’s all over, there will be some prizes handed out._

_Don’t tell G or M I said any of that. I’m not questioning Her. I have absolute faith, I’m just trying to connect the dots. But G or M would never see it like that. Of course, you would never tell them, I don’t know what I’m thinking of._

_I hope you’re well. I hope I can see you soon. I hope our problem gets solved soon. Let me know if there’s anything at all that I can do to help solve it._

_Yours,_

_A_

Aziraphale sat back in his chair and stared at what he had written. He'd gotten a bit carried away in places, letting his emotions just pour out onto the paper. Anxiety began to bubble up in his chest, but he took a breath, and stopped it in its tracks. He knew that if he began revising and rewriting, he would never stop. Instead, he decisively put his quill away, and dried the ink with a thought. He folded the letter, and carefully tilted one of his candles over it, letting droplets of melted wax fall onto the parchment, sealing it shut.

It was only after he’d finished all of this that Aziraphale realised he had no idea where to send this letter. He didn’t know Crowley’s address, he didn’t even know what country they might be in! There was no way he could send it to them. 

And yet, it wasn’t entirely a waste of time. Even though he couldn’t send it, the act of writing the letter had made him feel less alone. And because the letter had been intended for Crowley, it was almost as if Aziraphale had a piece of Crowley here with him. Aziraphale stood up from his desk, holding the letter in his hands. He contemplated feeding it into the fire, but at the last minute, he changed his mind, and tucked it into his robes. He wanted to keep the feeling of having Crowley with him just a little while longer. 

Aziraphale took to writing Crowley letters on a regular basis - at least once a month, and frequently more than that. He never sent them. He couldn’t. He would keep the letter on his person for a day or so, before destroying it. Aziraphale couldn’t risk anyone – angel or demon – finding it and reading it. 

The letters varied in length – the longest was pages and pages worth of prose recounting a recent adventure that Aziraphale just had to tell Crowley about in minute detail, the shortest was a mere three words long. The letters were no replacement for an actual companion, but, no matter how Aziraphale was feeling, writing one always made him feel better.

___  
  


Three years after writing the first letter, Aziraphale found himself back in England, travelling south towards London. It was the winter of 1281, and Aziraphale had been riding through the forest for several days. The cold was the sort that settled deep into his bones, and Aziraphale pulled his cloak tightly around himself. It took a minor miracle to restore feeling in the tip of his nose. He was desperately relieved when the trees began to thin out and the forest came to an end, revealing a narrow river and, across an arched stone bridge, a town. Aziraphale dismounted and led his horse in, frost-coated blades of grass crunching pleasantly underfoot as he walked. 

It was the first town he’d come across after miles and miles of dense forest, and he was glad to see it. He’d been riding for several days straight at this point, and he’d decided both he and his horse needed a good rest before he continued on with the rest of their journey. His horse was tired, and he was in need of a hot meal and a comfy bed. As he entered the town, grass gave way to a well trodden path, and then to cobblestone roads, though the cobblestones were cracked and loose. Aziraphale stopped at a signpost, but it was too weather-worn for him to read.

The whole town had the look of a place that used to be charming, but had since fallen into disrepair. Many of the shop fronts he walked past were empty and unused. Even the ones that were occupied looked a little worse for wear. Several roofs needed re-thatching, and the paint on the doors and window frames was flaking and peeling off. 

Not only that, but the spirits of the people who lived there seemed to match the miserable state of their town. Aziraphale offered a smile to the people he passed in the street, and he was met with blank, or even hostile looks. He didn’t think it was personal, though. Their auras all felt so ... downtrodden. Flashes of frustration, anger, misery and despair appeared all over the town, like pins and needles in the air that made Aziraphale shiver uncomfortably when he stepped into them.

He wondered what on Earth was going on. Perhaps he ought to try to help? But how? 

“Oh, excuse me, sir.” Aziraphale called out to a man he saw walking down the street. “Are you from this town?”

The man stopped, quite reluctantly, and stepped closer to Aziraphale.

“Um, yes. Can I help?” The man asked, regarding Aziraphale with suspicion.

Aziraphale paused. He supposed it would be quite rude to ask a complete stranger to tell him why they were feeling so wretched, especially since Aziraphale wouldn't be able to explain how he knew what they were feeling. 

“Um, yes, I was wondering if you knew if there's an inn somewhere nearby? Preferably one with an adjacent stable,” Aziraphale asked instead. 

The man's expression softened slightly now he knew all Aziraphale wanted was directions. 

“Yeah, there is. Or, I mean, there was. I don’t know if it's still open.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the last owner was in a lot of debt and skipped town without paying half of them. I heard some new bloke was taking it over, but I’m not too sure.”

“I see. Well, worth a try, I suppose. Where is it?” Aziraphale said, a little dismayed. 

The man gave him directions, and Aziraphale thanked him, and carried on walking.

It occurred to him as he did, that if this inn was open, he could ask the owner about what had happened to the last one. Innkeepers usually welcomed friendly chit-chat. That could lead to a conversation about the town in general and how rundown everything was, and maybe Aziraphale would get enough information to help out. He might not be able to fix it entirely, but a miracle here and some angelic inspiration there would certainly help nudge them in the right direction.

With each street he walked down, he saw even more empty storefronts and abandoned houses. The buildings were neglected and in need of some maintenance, to be sure, but not uninhabitable. These people hadn't left their homes because of some emergency like war or a natural disaster. This had been a slower form of destruction, of the economic kind. Something had happened to make rent unpayable. 

After about twenty minutes, Aziraphale found the inn. He stowed his horse in the empty stable and headed inside.

It wasn’t the cosy, make-you-feel-at-home type of inn. It was the type designed to remind you that you were very much not at home and were expected to buy food and drinks in exchange for being allowed to stay. The kind where every minute you were not spending money was a minute you were no longer welcome. The only positive was the fire that burned in the hearth, warming the room and giving it a ruby glow. 

There didn’t seem to be any other customers. The only other person in the place was a small boy, about thirteen, dressed in dark colours and sweeping the floor. He seemed surprised by Aziraphale’s presence and stared at him openly.

“Um, hello. Do you work here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. I'm Micah. Can I help?” he asked.

“Yes, please, I rather think you can. I'd like to book a room for a few nights. My horse is in your stable, and she would be very grateful for a good brush down and some fresh hay. And after she's been tended to, I'd love some ale and a plate of something hot.”

Micah seemed taken aback. In his world, clearly, customers were on par with unicorns and dragons when it came to rarity. (And, as any service worker can attest to, customers are also on par with dragons when it came to the amount of caution that they needed to be treated with.) After a moment, Micah recovered.

“Oh, wow. Um, for you and one horse, it’s three pence a night, not including any food or drink. Is that okay?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Of course!” Aziraphale beamed, plucking a leather pouch of coins from his belt and offering it to the boy. 

“Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll, uh, I'll just let someone else know you're here, and then I'll go tend to your horse. Just sit down, grab a seat and someone will come and take care of you,” Micah said, before disappearing through a pair of doors into the depths of the inn designated ‘staff only’.

Aziraphale settled into a threadbare armchair beside the fire. He stretched his legs out in front of him and groaned at the tension escaping his body. Every single one of his muscles relaxed as he found himself- for the first time in days- sat on something that wasn’t a horse’s back. 

The doors Micah had disappeared through swung open, and a very familiar face emerged from them, on a lean, angular body, on two very long, very thin legs. As usual, they were dressed all in black. 

If Aziraphale's body had needed to breathe, it would have been struggling right at that moment. Aziraphale stared at Crowley, his eyebrows climbing skyward as he took in the bizarre image of Crowley, a millennia-old demon with almost unimaginable power, standing there, with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and a tea towel tucked into the back of their apron. 

“Aziraphale? What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, as if _they_ were the one who had any right to be shocked at what they were seeing.

“I’m – I was told this was the only inn in town. My horse and I need a rest, so I booked a room for a couple of nights. What are you doing here? Do you work here?” Aziraphale asked, baffled. 

“Yes, I work here. I mean, I run the bloody place.”

“Why? What evil scheme could possibly involve running an inn?” Aziraphale asked, exasperated, before suddenly getting an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You’re not poisoning people, are you?”

“No! I’m not poisoning people! Give me a little credit, please,” Crowley said, affronted. “As to why I own this place, it’s a long story, but the short version is an ill-advised spot of gambling and a human who didn’t know when to give up.”

“Crowley! You scammed a poor human out of this place?”

“It was hardly scamming him. It was a game of chance.”

“And it was just down to chance, was it? You didn’t use your magic to make sure you would win?” Aziraphale asked, eyebrows arching sceptically. Crowley made a face, opening and closing their mouth and emitting several noncommittal noises as they tried to think of a response.

“Honestly, I think I was doing him a favour by taking this place off his hands,” Crowley said eventually, sidestepping Aziraphale's question. “He was in trouble anyway, and the taxes here are unbelievable. Well, they have to be, it's to make up for the fact that the nobility and all of their friends have been made exempt from paying. And I know for a fact they're not using that money to fund public services, I mean, you’ve seen the state of the town, and between you and me, I wouldn't drink the water while you're here—” Crowley seemed to realise they were ranting and let out a small laugh, presumably amused that they were getting so invested in these human banalities.

Aziraphale felt his heart lurch at the sound of that laughter. Ah, there was the tempting, right on schedule.

“Right. Water's bad. I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale said breathlessly as he tried to get himself under control. He had gone so long without experiencing Crowley's tempting, he had forgotten what it felt like.

“And about what evil schemes I’m running, as of yet, none. I’m still waiting for inspiration. Bit of a dry spell, if I’m honest,” Crowley said, rubbing the back of their neck as though they were embarrassed by this.

“Right. I see,” Aziraphale said slowly. 

“That's actually why I came here. People are miserable, and I’ve been taking credit for it downstairs. Gives me time to think of something without the bosses pestering me and asking what's taking so long.”

The shock over seeing Crowley was beginning to fade away, and Aziraphale was now realising that he should probably be getting going. He didn't want to leave. Aziraphale wanted to stay and eat a hot meal and sleep in an actual bed, and more than anything, talk to Crowley. He wanted to tell Crowley how much he’d missed them, but that was completely out of the question. Crowley had asked him to stay away, and he had to respect his friend's wishes.

Aziraphale was just about to make his excuses (it didn’t matter about getting his money back), when Crowley interrupted his train of thought.

“So, you booked a room, then? And Micah tells me you wanted something to eat? I didn't expect to have guests, we never do, so there’s not a lot stocked for you to choose from. We've got fish, and there's some vegetables from the garden you could have with it, if that sounds alright?” Crowley asked, in a tone that, on anyone else, Aziraphale would have characterised as shy. On Crowley? Who knew? Aziraphale wasn’t sure that demons could be shy. 

Aziraphale stared, watching Crowley's cheeks become more and more flushed, unsure what to make of the offer. He'd thought that Crowley wanted space until the tempting problem had been solved— and the way his heart was currently fluttering in his chest told him it very much had not been solved yet. 

Personally, Aziraphale didn’t care. The effort it took to withstand temptation was a small price to pay for the chance to spend an evening in Crowley's company, especially when it would be the first time he had done so in centuries.

“Ah– yes, please, that sounds lovely. The fish, I mean, it sounds perfect. Ah, I mean, if you don’t mind, that is,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a hesitant smile.

“Course I don’t mind!” Crowley said, in a tone that was almost heartfelt, before adding, “I mean, it’s not like business is booming. Can't afford to be turning away customers. Enjoy the fire, I'll come back with your food when it's ready.”

———

“Mm! That was scrumptious!” Aziraphale asked, speaking for the first time in almost half an hour. It had been the first proper food he'd had in weeks, and he'd wanted to savour it. He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief to remove any grease and looked up to find Crowley sat on the opposite side of the table, staring at him. The demon hadn’t moved since he'd placed the plate in front of Aziraphale.

“Ah, so you liked it then?” Crowley asked, clearing his throat. 

“Oh, yes, it was marvellous. Did you make it?”

“Ah– yup. I sure did, yes.” Crowley said, looking proud. Aziraphale smiled. It was nice to see that Crowley had picked up an avocation that was constructive and worthwhile.

“The vegetables were lovely, what's your trick there?”

“Uh, well the carrots, I roasted with parsley. And the peas, I use mint." 

“Well it was lovely. Oh, I was wondering, why did you mash the potatoes? I mean, they were delicious, I’ve just not seen them done like that before.”

“Well, good way to release frustrations, innit?” Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale let out a laugh and sat back in his chair, enjoying the pleasantly full up feeling in his stomach.

“So, how long have you been here?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley frowned as they tried to remember.

“Hm, I dunno. A while. Few years? It’s hard to keep track, especially when nothing that interesting happens.”

“And the boy? Micah, I think you said his name was.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s been here about a year. I don’t actually need any staff; anything he does, I could do better myself, with a snap of my fingers. But it makes me seem more realistic, I guess.”

“That's why you took him on? To make yourself seem more realistic?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but probe.

“Well, alright, fine. He’s a good lad. It's nice to have him around, reminds me of being in Tangier, and teaching all those kids. Happy?” Crowley asked, a snarl in their voice. The snarl had a certain implication to it, and that implication was ‘okay, I’ve told you the truth, but don't you _dare_ call me nice because of it’.

“Very much so, thank you," Aziraphale said, entirely truthfully. "Oh, I should ask, what's your name here? What does Micah know you as?” 

“I’m just Crowley here, and everybody knows me as a man.” 

“Ah, righto. I didn’t want to, ah, _suck your cover_ , as it were.”

“I think you mean blow my cover, Aziraphale.” Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh.

Slowly but surely, the conversation began to flow a little smoother, the hundred year gap in seeing each other proving to be a smaller obstacle than Aziraphale would have guessed. 

Crowley explained what was going on in this town – the sheriff had set the tax rates sky high, and anyone who refused to pay was ruthlessly punished. Taxes, in general, weren't a bad thing, if they weren't abused by corrupt officials. Those scraping by with nothing shouldn’t be expected to pay when they could barely feed and clothe themselves. Meanwhile, it is only right that the richest people should be expected to give up that third or fourth home, that string of prize-winning horses, the dresses made of silk shipped over from far-off lands, if it meant that new roads could be built, fields irrigated and bridges maintained. In this town, and in many of the towns around it, however, the richest weren't charged a penny, and the poorest were expected to pick up the slack. And as far as Crowley could tell, the money wasn’t going to new roads or water supplies, it was going to funding the sheriff's personal army.

“There's little I can do to help, then. I can’t remove this man from his position of authority, and if I just give these people more money, he’s sure to seize it from them,” Aziraphale lamented.

“Yup. This is one the humans have to figure out on their own. Don’t look so glum, angel. You can't save them all.” Crowley got up from the table, removing the empty plate from in front of Aziraphale and replacing it with two empty glasses and a bottle of wine.

“I know. Still, it’s not pleasant to watch humans inflict misery upon each other. This sheriff must know he’s causing suffering, and he doesn’t care.” Aziraphale said as he uncorked the bottle and filled up the glasses. 

Crowley sat back down, picked up his glass, and held it up for Aziraphale to clink his own against. Neither of them said aloud exactly what they were toasting to. To humanity, in all its simultaneous glory and ugliness? To each other and the fact that they had been reunited, if only for a short period of time? To the sheriff's imminent demise? Perhaps all of the above.

The conversation moved on, as the two filled each other in on what had happened during their separation. Crowley told a tale of a Nordic village in which he had been mistaken for one of their gods, after someone had spotted him transforming from his snake form into his humanoid one. Aziraphale waxed poetic about Chernigov and Aksum; buttered noodles and mulled wine. He decidedly did not tell Crowley about his recently developed letter-writing habit. Instead, he told Crowley about all the lesser demons that had been coming up from below to pester him. 

“Wait, what?” Crowley sputtered, near choking on a mouthful of wine. The good humour had disappeared from his voice, as had the smile that had just a moment ago been sprawled across his face.

“You mean you didn’t already know?” Aziraphale asked, taken aback by this sudden change in mood.

“I knew there were other demons mucking about up here. I didn’t know they were doing anything to you! Of course I didn't know! If I'd have known, I'd have done something!” Crowley exclaimed, seeming – angry? Panicked? Horrified? Aziraphale had no idea. 

“Oh. Well, I’m not sure why you’re surprised. They’re demons. I’m an angel. _Of course_ they want to make my life more difficult,” Aziraphale said slowly, hoping that he could somehow project his own calmness onto Crowley. Crowley noticed what he was doing, and took a breath, apparently trying to get his emotions under control.

“Make your life more difficult? Um, how exactly do they do that?” Crowley asked carefully, anger still simmering beneath the surface.

“Oh, ridiculous ways really. One of them, Enoch, broke into my cottage, and moved all my furniture exactly one inch to the left. I was bumping into my coffee table for weeks before I realised what had happened.”

Crowley stared at him expectantly. 

“And then, what did he do?” he asked, gently, after a minute or so of silence.

“Um, nothing. That was it,” Aziraphale said, a little embarrassed at the anticlimactic end to his story.

Crowley let out a groan that dissolved into peals of laughter, not the kind that came from having heard something funny, more the kind that came from pure relief.

“Oh, fuck. Aziraphale! You idiot! I thought you meant they were, you know, attacking you.” He finally managed to get out.

“Oh! No, no, it’s never physical. Well, my shins did bruise quite a bit,” Aziraphale said, marvelling at the strength of Crowley's reaction. 

“Oh, you poor thing. That sounds terrible!” Crowley teased. Aziraphale huffed, beginning to bristle. Of course, now they were back to how things usually were, with Crowley making fun of him.

“Well, regardless. You’ve fought me before. You should know that I'd be able to defend myself if I needed to.” 

“Okay, okay, that's true. I should be worrying about what you will do to them. But, tell me, what did Enoch do next? Steal your silver cutlery?”

“No, I should say he didn't! I put a protective shield around my house once I realised what he'd done, so he won't be getting back in any time soon.” 

“You did what?” Crowley asked, frowning. Something was happening in his head. Aziraphale could practically see the wheels turning in Crowley's mind.

“I put a protective shield up around my house. A kind of magical energy barrier. A force field, one might call it. Only beings that I want to gain entry are physically able to do so. Why, what are you thinking?” 

“A force field! Aha! Oh! Maybe that would work?”

“What would work?” Aziraphale asked, a little exasperated. Feeling out of the loop was a novelty to him, and not a novelty he particularly enjoyed.

“A force field would work, to solve our problem. Our problem is that I’m accidentally sending you signals. Those feelings. I’ve been trying to solve the problem by working out how to stop myself from sending the signals-”

“And you haven’t managed to do that yet?” 

“Yeah, alright, don't rub it in. I'm still working on it. It's a lot harder to do than it sounds! But what if, in the meantime, I put a kind of force field around myself? Around my essence? I'd still be giving off those signals, for the time being, but I could build a wall around myself to stop them from reaching you.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, running through what he had just said. He wasn’t sure how Crowley planned to put a force field around his own brain, but if he managed that part, it should work. Rather than convincing his demonic parts to stop tempting, Crowley would just stop the temptations from reaching Aziraphale. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. 

“Yes, I think that would work. Can you do that without hurting yourself? And what about other demons? Would they be able to sense it? I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward situation of having to explain it.”

“I can turn it off when you're not around. And I'm sure it won't hurt. But really, there's only one way to find out.” 

Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he concentrated on the task at hand. As Crowley breathed in and out, Aziraphale’s view of his aura began to fade. The sharp red haze that had been around Crowley, vibrant and striking, faded into a soft, pastel pink blur. Crowley was indeed erecting a barrier around himself, and it was stopping anything that Aziraphale's angelic senses would normally pick up on from getting through. Aziraphale could still see Crowley, he could still hear him, but he could no longer feel Crowley's presence in the way that he used to be able to.

_This must be what it's like to be a human and look at another human,_ Aziraphale thought. _Poor things, how do they manage like this?_

“There. I think that’s done? Ugh, that gave me a right headache.” Crowley plucked his dark glasses off, laying them on the table so he could massage his temples unimpeded. 

“Are you quite alright? This isn’t too much of a strain to keep up, is it?” Aziraphale asked, more than a little concerned.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s like when you try to run too fast too soon and you pull something. I just, I dunno, need to do some stretches before I try that next time.” Crowley laughed off Aziraphale's concerns easily. He looked up at Aziraphale with his beautiful, golden eyes, shooting him a little grin to prove that he really was fine. 

And Aziraphale knew immediately that it hadn’t worked. Crowley's expression was full of cautious, nervous optimism. It was open and earnest, so rare for Crowley, and all Aziraphale wanted to do was reach across the table, take Crowley’s face into his hands, and kiss him. Even though the force field had stopped other kinds of magic from getting through, the temptation was unimpeded. 

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense. Did it work?” Crowley asked, his voice laced with nervousness.

“Yes, I rather think it did, my dear. I, I can’t feel it anymore.” Aziraphale couldn’t bear to be apart from Crowley any longer. He could tell a little white lie and ignore a little bit of tempting if it meant that he didn’t have to be separated from his friend anymore. 

“Oh thank Satan!” Crowley let out a laugh of relief. It wasn’t a particularly good lie on Aziraphale's part, but Crowley believed it because he wanted to believe it.

Crowley threw his fists in the air in celebration and his whole body followed suite, wriggling too much to stay sat down. He leapt to his feet and did what seemed to be a very strange little dance. 

“Um,” Aziraphale said, holding back a smile. 

Now that he wasn’t worried about what messages he might be inadvertently sending to Aziraphale, Crowley quite clearly felt much more free to be himself. Not entirely himself, of course; Crowley still had his hang ups and insecurities, but he was much more comfortable around Aziraphale than he had been just a few minutes ago. 

And when he was being himself, he was _adorable_. 

Far too soon, Crowley realised that what he was doing didn’t look particularly cool and the dancing came to a stop. He put his dark glasses back on, and slithered back into his chair to pour himself and Aziraphale another glass of wine. He raised his up, and this time, he did propose a toast.

“To Enoch! He's a meddlesome bastard that causes problems on purpose and solves problems by accident.” He grinned. 

“To Enoch,” Aziraphale repeated and clinked his glass against Crowley’s.

Just as they were sipping their drinks, Micah burst through the door. He was red in the face and panting as though he’d just run as fast as he could, and when he started talking, it was at the top of his lungs, and a mile a minute.

“Crowley, something’s happening! I went to the market like you told me to, and I saw that man. The one you told me to watch out for, he’s back, in the middle of town, and he’s causing a ruckus! Oh, you should get Jon, he’ll want to see too!” 

Just as quickly as the boy had appeared, he disappeared, running off and leaving the inn door swinging behind him. If Crowley was confused by this, he didn’t show it. He leapt back to his feet and summoned his cloak, draping it over his shoulders. With a miracle, he pounded on the door to the back rooms despite not being anywhere near them, and then set out after Micah. 

He was almost out the door when Aziraphale caught his arm.

“What’s going on? Where are you going? And who’s Jon?” Aziraphale asked, completely bewildered.

“Uh, in order - I don’t know, I’m going to follow the sound of commotion until I get to the right place, and Jon is the cook,” Crowley replied. “You’re free to either come with me or stay here. But I’m going. Whatever’s going down, I want to be there to take credit for it.” 

And with that, he worked himself free, and darted out of the door after Micah.

“The cook... Wait, Crowley, I thought _you_ made the food?” Aziraphale demanded to an empty room, before heaving out a sigh, wrapping his own cloak around himself, and chasing Crowley out into the frosty air, with Jon the cook locking up behind him.

Crowley, with his ears carefully attuned to the sounds of chaos, ran through the streets with the precision of a bloodhound, and it was all Aziraphale could do to keep up. Soon enough, though, they came across the crowd that had gathered to watch the hullabaloo. 

A man, dressed all in green, stood on the roof of a large building that Crowley informed Aziraphale was the town hall. He was youthful and strong-looking, with an impressive moustache. He was holding a large burlap sack that Micah claimed was full of gold, and he had presumably climbed up onto the roof to escape the foot soldiers that chased him. 

The soldiers, some of them with crossbows raised, stood at the base of the hall, surrounding him. The soldiers were, in turn, surrounded by civilians, all wanting to see what was happening. This town didn’t get much excitement. When excitement appeared, the townspeople grabbed it and held on tight.

“That money is the property of the Sheriff of Nottingham! Relinquish it at once!” one of the soldiers yelled. The soldier was aware he had an audience and was being very careful to speak loudly and enunciate clearly.

The man in green laughed. It was a full body laugh, a hands-on-hips, throwing-head-back, shoulders-bouncing-merrily kind of laugh.

“Absolutely not! This money is the rightful property of the people of this town, and the people of towns just like this one! They’ve been taken advantage of, and I won’t let it happen any longer! The Sheriff of Nottingham is a thief, and I am returning what he's stolen!” the man declared. 

Before the guards could stop him, he reached deep into the sack, grabbed a fistful of gold coins, and threw them. A collective gasp went up as the coins soared through the air, glinting in the cold winter sun. All around Aziraphale, the crowd surged forwards, knocking down soldiers in their haste. Clawing, grabbing hands shot into the air, desperately trying to catch the falling coins, and it was all the soldiers could do to hold them back.

“Stay back! That money isn’t yours!” a soldier yelled, struggling to stay upright against the rising swell of people. He turned and raised his shield, the threat being that he would use it to batter people back if they got too close. 

“Fuck off!” more than one person yelled in response, and suddenly, the outstretched hands were grabbing onto the shield and attempting to rip it away from him. 

“Ignore them! It's him we're after! Fire!” someone else, presumably some kind of leader, yelled.

Seconds later, there was a whistling noise as crossbow bolts whizzed through the air towards the man in green. He fell flat onto the roof and disappeared from view. Aziraphale held his breath, terrified that he'd just witnessed a murder, but the man in green popped back up again, miraculously no worse for wear. 

“Oi! Careful with that, you could have someone's eye out!” he yelled, barely audible over the shouts and cheers of the crowd.

The man in green had a bow slung across his torso and a quiver of arrows on his belt, but he wasn't using them to fight back. Probably he was too worried about hitting one of the civilians. And with good reason, too. Aziraphale felt the crush of people all around him, packed in tight. People were pushing and shoving and trying to climb over each other.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelled through the clamour, panic starting to overtake his body. He seized the demon’s hand, not wanting them to get separated in the frantic tide of people.

Crowley, in turn, grabbed a hold of Micah’s shoulder, keeping the boy close to them, upright and untrampled. It would be a miracle if no one was hurt, thought Aziraphale. And then, hoping Heaven wouldn’t chastise him for this later, it _was_ a miracle, and no one would be hurt. 

“Fire!” came the cry, and again, crossbow bolts arched through the air.

Quick as a fox, the man in green dove to the side, rolling across the roof. Once the coast was clear, he popped back up and plunged another hand into his sack, throwing fistful after fistful of coins into the air. People gasped and screamed in excitement as they tried to catch the money, pushing and shoving to get closer to the man in green.

It was becoming an all out brawl now, some people still trying to grab the coins that the man in green was throwing, some people grappling with the guards. Their anger and frustration had reached a boiling point. All it took was for the first punch to be thrown. It was impossible for others not to follow. 

“You can’t stay up there forever!” one of the soldiers yelled, and as if to persuade him of this, others began to climb up after him.

They moved slowly, though. The walls of the town hall were bumpy and uneven with plenty of grooves and notches to grab onto, but they were also icy and slippery. The man in green would have a few minutes to plan his next move. Would he try to fight? He could shoot at soldiers who climbed up onto the roof with an almost zero chance of hitting civilians, after all. The man looked around and made a decision. He cinched the sack shut, threw it over his shoulder, took several large steps backwards, and with a running leap, hurled himself off of the roof. He soared through the air, over the astonished soldiers, who suddenly found that their crossbows were refusing to fire, and into the outstretched arms of the crowd. 

“Stop him! Get the bastard!” one of the guards screamed, furious as the townspeople simultaneously helped the man in green escape and blocked their pursuit after him.

“It's not like we're not trying!” another one of them retorted, using his shield to try and barge his way through the mass of people, but finding it soon torn from his grasp.

_“Where even is he?!”_

In all the commotion, the man in green had entirely disappeared. 

“Over here!” a voice rang out from across the town square. Aziraphale turned, to see the man in green had somehow escaped the entire pit of people, and was now, inexplicably, astride a horse, without a hair out of place. 

“And it's not ‘that bastard!’ It’s Robin Hood!” the man in green declared. “People of Sherwood, I swear to you, my Merry Men and I will stop at nothing to bring you justice! And remember, you have more power than you think! We are many, and they are few!”

And with that, Robin Hood began to ride, spurring his horse into a gallop. Soon, he had entirely disappeared from sight.

“He's heading towards the forest!”

“Well, after him, then!”

But that was easier said than done. In the span of less than ten minutes, Robin Hood had become a public hero. These people weren’t about to let him be arrested. They held together in a tight ring, refusing to let the guards out. They pushed and kicked and bit and spat at any guards who tried to shove their way through. 

“Enough! You people need to disperse at once! Move, or you will be arrested!” One of the guards, maybe the chief, yelled. 

Aziraphale’s heart began to race. He couldn't protect all these people from the brutality that these officers would soon try to unleash on them. 

“You heard what the lad said! There’s more of us than them! They can’t push us around now!” a woman yelled, raising her fist into the air as she tried to rally the rest of the townspeople.

“Yeah, they can't!” a voice next to Aziraphale roared in response. Aziraphale looked round to see the words had come from Crowley. Aziraphale's eyes widened in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, horrified. Crowley looked sheepish.

“Sorry, got caught up in the moment,” he shrugged. Aziraphale shook his head, dismayed.

The angry townspeople advanced on the foot soldiers, who, realising they were outnumbered and their weapons not functioning, made the wise decision to run inside the town hall and barricade themselves in. Just to be doubly sure there would be no more violence, Aziraphale fortified the barricades. Nobody would be coming in or out of the town hall that night.

It took awhile for the excitement to fade and for people to stop trying to break down the doors of the town hall. They were still angry, still downtrodden, but today had given them a glimpse of hope. They now knew what could happen if they worked together. People made agreements to meet again, to organise, to turn a spontaneous outpouring of fury into a sustained, long-term effort to snatch power back from the Sheriff. And then, they had returned to the struggles of their daily lives, of taking care of their children, and making sure there was food to eat. Crowley had sent Micah home, and told Jon to make sure he got there safely. 

Afterwards, Aziraphale and Crowley were left standing in the empty square.

“Did you have something to do with all this?” Aziraphale asked, wearily. Everything that had happened had been so fraught, and it could have turned to bloodshed and tragedy at any moment. He had exhausted himself with worry. Crowley, on the other hand, had been energised by it all.

“Nope! Absolutely not. Oh, I love it when I don’t do anything, and the humans are this weird and fucked up all on their own. Makes me feel like a proud mother hen watching her chicks learn to fly,” Crowley said, glee evident in his voice, actually clapping his hands with excitement. 

“You'd have been a proud mother hen watching her chicks be shot full of crossbow bolts if I hadn’t intervened,” Aziraphale snapped.

“But, _I_ was the one who intervened. I made sure no one would get hit,” Crowley protested, frowning.

“Oh... I jammed all their bows so they wouldn’t fire.” 

“So, an angel and a demon, performing the same miracle, near enough. Doesn’t bode well for one of us, does it?" Crowley said, a smile playing across his lips despite the nervousness in his eyes. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Now that Crowley pointed it out, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that what he had done was right.

“I think it's you. I mean, that man, Robin Hood, he was performing a public good. Giving money to the poor, making sure that justice was done. I'd say that’s quite moral, quite noble. It’s in the interests of Heaven to protect him,” Aziraphale said, firmly, with an air of confidence, despite the fact that he was trying to convince himself as much as Crowley.

“Ah, but he’s stealing, which is a sin, remember, angel. And he's inciting the public towards riots, sowing seeds of discontent. Things are about to get ugly here, which is what Hell loves, and Robin Hood is going to be at the centre of it,” Crowley argued.

“Well, I suppose there's no way to know who's right.”

“That’s not true. We can follow him and see what he’s up to now. Let's find out what's going on,” Crowley said, the excitement entering his voice again. 

“Crowley, this is not a play put on for your amusement. This is real life, and people could be getting seriously hurt.”

“If they are, then we can help them. Or rather, you can help them. I’ll help by not making things worse. And if not, then we can watch the theatrics unfold. Come on, angel, I’ve been dying for something fun to happen, get some inspiration, get my mojo back. And here comes this chap, straight out of a fairy tale, going round stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. It's perfect, I love it.”

“You are behaving like an absolute child, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded. Crowley pulled a face and stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale, not caring at all that that proved Aziraphale’s point. 

“Have you honestly got anything better to do than come see what’s happening? Oh, suit yourself either way. I’m going.” Crowley set off running after him into the woods. 

“Ah, Crowley…” Aziraphale bit his lip. He glanced round the empty square helplessly. His head told him to go back to the inn, but his foolish, fluttering heart told him to follow Crowley. He dithered for a moment, watching Crowley run, before relenting.

“Oh, for Heaven's sake, slow down!” Aziraphale cried as he started chasing after Crowley. It seemed like a bad idea even as he was doing it, but he couldn’t deny that it was the most alive he'd felt in a long time, and he wasn’t about to let that feeling go just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with the mice is inspired by true events! Very similar things happened throughout Europe from the thirteenth century onwards. My fave one was a cockerel that was put on trial for laying an egg and was accused of being an agent of Satan, but that didn't happen until like two hundred years after this chapter is set.
> 
> P.S. Hope everyone enjoyed their holidays! <3


	13. The Plague of the Anglerfish - Part 1 : Well, well, well, if it isn't the consequences of my own actions?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's thirteen hundred and something-something, and Crowley receives some pretty bad news first thing in the morning.
> 
> Content warning - As you can guess from the title, this chapter, and the ones following it, heavily feature plagues. The plague I'm writing about is the Black Death of 1360, so there are some differences to the current situation, but the themes of sickness and death might be upsetting, and hit too close to home. 
> 
> I originally planned this arc in October 2019, and this chapter was published early in January 2020. When the current coronavirus situation really kicked off, I thought it might be better to just get this arc over with since it was already planned and mostly written. I don't know if that was a good idea or not, but I am very sorry it's taken me this long to add a warning to this part of the fic. 
> 
> I hope you're all taking care of yourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for my erratic updating schedule, but I will probably not be changing my behaviour any time in the near future.
> 
> As always, thanks to @olasloucifer for proof-reading.

The year was… uh… Crowley didn’t actually  _ know _ what the year was. It definitely began with a one, he knew that much. And then, either a two or a three. The rest of the numbers were a complete blur. He was just waking up from one of his excessively long naps, and he was still groggy, still untangling himself from the clutches of unconsciousness. He had to get re-acclimatised to his body and the waking world. It could be disorientating when he had slept for more than a week – especially when it came to his memories and trying to sort what was real from what was imagined.

Had he actually adopted a kitten, or had that been a dream? Crowley lifted his head from the pillow and listened out for the jingle of a small bell on a small collar. Hm. Nothing. Just a dream, he supposed.

Crowley groaned and let his face slump back down into the feathery softness. It was tempting to let himself slide back into sleep, but no, that wasn’t the responsible thing to do. The responsible thing to do would be to get up, make himself presentable, and go out into the world to see what havoc needed causing.

Crowley groaned louder, before he set about peeling himself out from between the sheets. With a snap, the curtains opened, but it made little difference to the amount of light in the room. The sky was murky and grey, the sun as reluctant to rise as Crowley himself. Conveniently, Crowley didn’t need light to see. He slunk off down the corridor and began his morning routine.

This wasn’t the inn in Nottingham. He'd left that town long ago and had bequeathed the inn to a then-adult Micah. Since then, Crowley had travelled around quite a bit. Finally, he had landed back in London and found himself a nice stately home to reside in.

(In Crowley’s experience, most people who belonged to the nobility— and indeed anyone who ordered you to address them with a title instead of their actual name— were absolute assholes of the highest degree. As such, Crowley thought he would fit in quite well amongst them, so he had set about inserting himself into high society.)

Crowley stepped into the bathroom, and with a thought, the basin filled itself with pleasantly warm, fragrant water. Crowley splashed some on his face, removing any traces of sleep from his eyes, and peered into the mirror. To his horror, it was not his own face looking back at him.

“Hello, Crowley.” Dagon peered back at him from the mirror, looking and sounding as happy as Crowley had ever seen her. Oh Lord. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.

“Hello Dagon. Good to see you. You’re looking luminescent, as usual. Um, not to be rude, but you do seem to have stolen my reflection. Will I … be getting it back any time soon?” Crowley asked, slightly concerned that the answer would be never. He had enough problems without Dagon adding “habitually mistaken for a vampire” to the list.

At his question, Dagon only laughed, revealing her rows of sharp teeth, which didn’t exactly make Crowley feel at ease. It was too fucking early for this, whatever “this” was.

“Ha! I should have known you’d be worried about that. You’re always so fussy about what you look like. You spend so much time faffing around and changing your hair and your clothes, I'm genuinely surprised you have any time left over to get anything done.” 

“Uh... was there a point to this conversation, or did you just appear in my mirror to insult me?” Crowley asked. His patience was quickly running out. Already, he wanted to go back to bed. At his annoyance, Dagon laughed.

“I came to let you know that the plan will be commencing soon. We've cooked up something really nasty, and we'll soon be sending it up your way,” Dagon said, a dark and demented delight dripping from her voice.

“Oh. You have?” Crowley asked, racking his brains to try and remember what this was about. Everything was still a bit foggy. Was he absolutely sure he hadn't adopted a kitten?

“Well, truth be told, it’s actually something the humans have seen before. We nicked one of Pestilence’s old ones and re-purposed it. I did some editing and made it much, much worse. Don’t worry, we’ve told him what we did, and he loves it. He said he shouldn’t technically be taking sides, but he’s a big fan of people doing his work for him. But anyway, just thought we should give you a bit of warning before the humans start keeling over around you,” Dagon grinned.

Even without knowing the context or understanding exactly what she was talking about, the gleeful tone of her voice was setting off something primal and urgent in Crowley. Some dark force in the back of his mind was telling him to bare his teeth, to growl and snarl at her, or better yet, to _ run away _ .

“Right. Sorry, um, I, I’ve been a bit busy, got a lot on my mind. You'll have to remind me what this is about?” he asked, trying to stay calm and fight the rising levels of dread.

Dagon frowned at him and cocked her head. Crowley’s behaviour would normally inspire a sharp tongue-lashing, but right now, she only seemed bemused. She was in a scarily good mood.

“The plague, Crowley. You were there when I had the idea! You even inspired me a little. I'm really surprised you don’t remember it.”

Crowley carefully cultivated a blank, nonchalant expression and topped it off with a shrug. Dagon pressed on.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if you remember or not. Important thing is, we’ve cooked up a plague, and we're sending it up. We're thinking it will kill around half of Europe."

“ _ Half?! _ ” Crowley’s legs suddenly felt weak. He was struggling to maintain his calm expression and stay upright at the same time.

_ Please, please, Satan, let this be a dream, a very bad dream. Let me still be asleep in bed. Let me wake up again, for real this time. _

He gripped onto the rim of the basin, trying to steady himself. The feeling of the cool porcelain against his fingers only served to remind him that this was all too real.

“Well, two thirds at a push. But that's only in Europe. We're thinking it will be around one hundred million worldwide. But that's a very rough estimate. It's hard to accurately gauge from this end, there's a lot of variables that could change it,” Dagon said. Her tone was that of someone bragging about an exciting business venture, not that of someone planning to decimate the human population.

“Dagon, you can't do that!" Crowley said, unable to keep the horror from his voice.

Dagon threw her head back and laughed heartily. Crowley just stared, watching the laughter peter out and the smile slowly fade from her face as Dagon realised Crowley wasn’t joking.

“Oh? And why can’t I, Crowley?” she asked, a hard edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before.

Shit. Crowley had offended her.

He took a deep breath and tried to gather himself before responding. He had to tread very carefully here. He couldn’t have anyone thinking he wasn’t firmly on Team Hell.

“I just think that this is,” A terrible idea? Insane? Just too evil, even for us? “going to backfire.”

“Backfire? How?” Dagon demanded.

“Well, no offense at all intended, Dagon, but this might actually increase the number of souls going to Heaven. A disaster this big will make the humans think they’ve made God angry, so they start trying to make it up to Her. They pray, they beg for repentance, they get on their best behaviour,” Crowley said, bullshitting as well as he could. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t half bad.

Dagon’s jaw tightened. She looked as though she was restraining herself from reaching through the mirror and throttling Crowley. Crowley took a preemptive step back, just in case that was something she could do.

“Well, it’s a bit late to be saying all this now, Crowley! We've already made the plague. Everything's official. The forms have all been filled in, there's a timeline in place! We have an official launch date! No offense at all intended, but your comments are not helpful at this stage. If you wanted to be involved in the planning, you could have been, but you were more than happy for me to go ahead with this idea on my own. You were more interested in your monks,” Dagon snapped.

“No, I know, Dagon, I'm just saying, this will change the course of human history. You can't do something like that without being absolutely sure it's what you want to do. There's a lot of angles to consider -”

“And we’ve considered them, Crowley!” Dagon snapped, before letting out a sigh. “The only person who has the authority to stop this now is Lord Beelzebub zemself. And our Dark Master, Satan, obviously.”

“Then schedule me a meeting with Lord Beelzebub! I demand an appeal,” Crowley blurted out, in a moment of tremendous bravery and absolute stupidity. Dagon seemed taken aback by this.

“You want to schedule a meeting with Lord Beelzebub? You  _ do _ know that the last being who asked me to do that ended up smeared with honey and devoured alive by Lord Beelzebub’s flies?” She asked, her annoyance with Crowley set aside briefly to enjoy the thought of a fellow demon being discorporated in such a gruesome way.

“Um. Not to doubt our great and excellent Lord Beelzebub, but why, exactly, did ze do that?” Crowley asked, quietly horrified.

“Punishment for wasting zir time. Which you will have also done if ze rules against you. So, are you absolutely sure you want me to schedule this meeting?”

No.

“Yes,” Crowley said defiantly. Dagon huffed, clearly annoyed at the route this conversation has taken.

“Right, let me see.” Dagon disappeared from view briefly, and Crowley could hear the rustling of paper. When she returned, she seemed to be almost sizzling with annoyance. “Lord Beelzebub has an afternoon free one month from today.”

“Works perfectly for me.” Crowley grinned, as if he didn’t have a single doubt in his mind about what he was doing.

“Fine. You're all booked in,” Dagon said snottily.

Dagon disappeared without another word. In the blink of an eye, Crowley’s reflection returned to the mirror, as if it had never been gone.

Crowley stared at himself. He looked as though he might faint at any second. He  _ felt _ as though he might faint at any second. Not trusting himself to walk, he teleported himself back into bed. Waking up had clearly been a mistake.

It was fine. It was _fine_. He had one month to prepare an argument against releasing a plague on humanity. Easy. Easy peasy. He could do that. The only catch being, of course, that he couldn’t appeal to their better natures, because they didn’t have better natures, and he couldn't so much as mention the senseless loss of good and innocent lives, because the people he was delivering it to were the sort of people to _unleash_ _a_ _plague for fun_. Oh, fuck.

Exactly one month later to the day, Crowley arrived in Hell. He descended the obsidian staircase, down, down, down, until he finally arrived at the door of Lord Beelzebub's throne room. He had a satchel filled with notes tucked under his arm, and he could only hope that what he had prepared was enough. Two demons stood outside the throne room, guarding the door, looking very big, very serious, and very official whilst doing so.

“Name and business here?” One of them asked.

“Crowley. I have a meeting with Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley said, flashing a dazzling smile, projecting nothing but confidence.

The two guards glanced at each other, before one of them leaned over and pulled the great oak door open. It creaked unpleasantly, making everyone in earshot cringe, and Crowley hurried inside.

The throne room, like much of the rest of Hell, was dark, grimy and smelled distinctly of rotting meat. To Crowley’s horror, it was not empty. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was absolutely packed, filled with demons, who seemed to be there to spectate.

Crowley suddenly felt very claustrophobic. He glanced around and saw Dagon flitting about the room. She looked far too pleased with herself.

“Dagon!” he called, as he hurried over to her.

“Crowley! Oh, wow, it’s been a month since I’ve seen you, and you’re still the same gender. Congratulations, that must be a new record.” She smiled. She looked awfully pleased with herself. Crowley grabbed her arm and pulled her in close.

“Dagon, what is all this? I thought I scheduled a  _ private meeting _ with Lord Beelzebub?” Crowley hissed. Dagon gave him a stern look and removed her arm from his grip.

“Oh, well, you know, I booked a meeting initially, private, one-on-one, but then I realised, you also said you wanted an appeal. And, of course, those are actually two very different things. I wasn’t sure which you meant, but I would have felt just terrible if I’d booked you the wrong one, so I went back and changed it for you, just to be safe,” Dagon said, her voice venomous and sugar sweet all at once.

“Right. Just to be safe. So I’ve got an audience, that’s great. Is there anything else I should know about? What is the difference between a meeting and an appeal?”

“Well, the main differences are: this will take up far more of Lord Beelzebub’s time, there’s much more oversight and in an appeal, someone else has to argue the opposite side. Ligur volunteered to do that,” Dagon said, brightly.  _ Of course _ . It was just like Dagon to use bureaucracy to exact her revenge on him. The plague was her pet project, and she would be blessed before she let Crowley take it from her.

“Did he? So kind of him,” Crowley managed to get out. He made his excuses, muttering something about needing to go over his notes again, before walking away from Dagon.

Crowley ignored the voice in his head that was telling him to transform himself into a snake, wrap himself around Dagon’s neck and squeeze until her corporation crumbled. Demons fought each other all the time, so there was a chance he would get away with it, but still. He wasn’t going to do it. For one thing, as someone who casually betrayed Hell on a semi-regular basis, Crowley didn’t need the kind of scrutiny that that would bring onto him. And for another, well, he wasn’t too confident that was a fight he could win.

Crowley took a breath and pushed thoughts of violent retribution out of his mind. He began to read through his file one last time. He already knew the points he wanted to make, but he wanted to be as prepared and as confident as possible when this all began.

Sooner than he would have liked, a tiny trumpet trumpeted, successfully getting the attention of the court. Silence fell across the room. Silence, that is, except for the faint sound of buzzing.

It started off as a small noise, the kind of noise that entered the periphery of your mind and made you feel itchy, as though you could feel tiny feet crawling across you, digging into your skin. The volume of the buzzing increased, and Lord Beelzebub entered the room, zir flies buzzing around zir head like a tiny, localised thunderstorm. Zir black and red cloak swished behind zem dramatically as ze strode across the room and claimed zir throne. The throne was so big, and Beelzebub’s legs so short, that zir feet didn’t touch the ground. Crowley supposed Beelzebub thought ze looked dignified. In Crowley’s opinion, ze looked like a despotic twelve-year-old. He decided to keep that thought to himself.

“Crowley, step forwards,” Beelzebub droned in zir usual nasally tone. The sound of zir voice was enough to make the flies fall quiet, the buzzing relegated to a faint background static.

Crowley fought back the urge to tremble as he approached. He took a breath, before bowing deeply.

“Lord Beelzebub. A pleasure to see you, as always,” Crowley crooned, looking up at zem from his deep bow and flashing his best, most winning smile. Beelzebub was not impressed.

“Crowley. We've been working on this dizzease for almost two hundred years .  Now, just as we're about to release it, you come to uzz and tell uzz not to. Before we go any further, I'd like you to acknowledge what a pain in the ass that izz,” Beelzebub glowered at him.

Crowley stood back up, ramrod straight. His face burned as he heard the chuckles and snickers that emanated from the back corners of the room. There would be no charming his way out of this one.

“You're right, my Lord, and I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience. I – It is a pain in the ass, I can only imagine. If I might explain my actions, I didn't understand the true extent to these plans until Dagon briefed me on them a month ago. It was only when I learned of the proposed death toll that I realised we should not go through with releasing it.”

Beelzebub pursed zir lips, looking very much like ze was deciding then and there whether or not to discorporate Crowley for causing all this trouble. Crowley’s heart didn’t beat again until ze opened zir mouth.

“Understood. Very well then. Get on with your arguments.”

“Of course. I’ll keep this brief. Our goal, as demons, is to acquire as many human souls as possible while the humans are still alive and then punish them mercilessly after they die. My objection mainly boils down to the fact that I believe this plague will result in the acquisition of less human souls. There’s a lot of reasons for why I believe this. Firstly, I've lived on Earth for a long time, since the beginning. I’ve seen all kinds of natural disasters: earthquakes, floods, fires, diseases, all of them. And I know that times of crisis can bring out the best in humanity. They do really disgusting and annoying things, like put aside their differences and work together to solve problems. They will act in better ways than they do in times of peace and calm. Less people will go to Hell as a direct result of this disease. That, obviously, isn’t what we want.”

“ _ Some _ people might act better, but some people will act worse. Looting, rioting, putting people on trial for witchcraft, torching whole towns to stop the spread of the plague. And there’s those of em that think, “hey, I’m going to die anyway, might as well fuck up some stuff before I do.” Or “these citizens are going to die anyway, so might as well force them to fight in a senseless war.” Souls will be sent to Hell as a result of this, souls that we never would have gotten otherwise,” Ligur said, stepping into view.

Shit. He was better than Crowley had expected he would be.

“Okay, yes, that’s true, but you're forgetting about context. We know that Heaven judges people based on context. For example, Robin Hood. I met this particular human a few decades back. Annoying bloke; wouldn’t stop singing. But my point is, even though he spent his life stealing, which is a sin, one of the big top ten no-no’s, Heaven let him in, because when they looked at the context of his actions, they decided what he was doing was moral.”

“What'zz your point, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked. Crowley couldn’t guess what ze was thinking, zir face was giving away nothing.

“My point is that Heaven will be more lenient on these sinners  _ based on the context _ in which they sinned. The context being a plague of epic proportions that was caused by the forces of Hell. The angels might decide to be more forgiving of the humans’ sins because the humans were, understandably, scared. And as we all know, angels are bastards –“ 

That drew a good-natured jeer from the gathered demons, as if Crowley was the hero of a pantomime, and he had just mentioned the name of the villain. Crowley smiled inwardly. Maybe he could pull this off. 

“- and they don’t like losing. They will be really angry at us for causing this plague, and they will want to get back at us. They might decide that the way to do that is to be extra forgiving to the victims of this plague. Heaven might go easier on the dead than they normally would,  _ just to spite us _ , to make sure we lose out on souls.”

Beelzebub’s face gave nothing away, but zir flies started to seem more agitated. The swarm that hovered in the air around them began to move faster, orbiting Beelzebub like electrons around the nucleus of an atom.

“And don't forget,” Crowley hurried on, not wanting to give Ligur the chance to rebuke him, “children who aren’t old enough to understand the concept of sin go straight to Heaven. Many such children will die, and thus, will never grow up to become the evil, sinful adults they otherwise would have been.”

“Huh. And it's around one hundred million people. So how many of those will be children whose souls we never even get a chance at?” Beelzebub asked, leaning forwards in zir throne, and lacing zir fingers together. Zir face and voice were still neutral, but Crowley wanted to believe ze wasn't as unbothered as ze seemed.

“Well, as Dagon will tell you, it's hard to estimate. But, truth be told, the unfortunate matter of it is that human children have weaker immune systems than adults. Their bodies are smaller. The volume of each humour is smaller, and therefore much more easily unbalanced. The number of children that fall victim to the plague will be quite disproportionate,” Crowley said, trying hard to make it seem like he knew what we was talking about. He'd done his research, but he wasn't truly confident about it. The last medical scholar Crowley had spoken to was a Roman named Galen, and he'd been an asshole. 

“We will lose out on those souls, yes, but we will also have gotten to torture millions of souls who wouldn’t have ever ended up in Hell while they were still on Earth. That's a win, my Lord. The game isn’t just about acquiring souls. It’s also about making life on Earth miserable for humans. It’s about causing as much suffering as possible,” Ligur pointed out.

“Besides, what's Heaven going to do with baby souls? They won't exactly be an asset to Heaven when it comes to the End of Days, and they don’t taste nearly as nice as adult souls,” Hastur added from the galleys.

“Sorry, you’ve been eating souls? Why?  _ And how _ ?” Dagon asked him in a hushed tone.

“Just giving ‘em a little nibble. Were we not supposed to?” Hastur asked, in a whisper that was no quieter than his normal speaking voice.

Crowley pressed on, not wanting to get side tracked.

“The thing is, this is not a plague that will be easily forgotten, my Lord. See, it isn't just a question of what will happen while the plague is happening, while people are still in crisis mode. This will have ramifications for _hundreds of years._ Wiping out two-thirds of them would be devastation on a scale that most humans cannot comprehend. This will put the fear of God into the humans, for generations to come. They will assume She did this, they will assume that they did something to make Her angry, and they will do anything to make Her happy again, to make this stop. They’ll pray and make offerings, and that will continue for years. The survivors will be on their best behaviour for _years_. The world will never be the same again if we do this. It will change everything,” Crowley proclaimed, finishing on a dramatic note. 

He hoped it worked, because that was all he had left. He glanced over at Ligur, waiting for his rebuttal, but it didn’t come.

Beelzebub closed zir eyes and took a deep breath in. Apparently, the smell of rotting garbage was somewhat soothing to zem. Ze opened zir eyes again, and Crowley saw it on zir face. A flicker of emotion. Ze was going to rule in his favour, he was sure of it.

“This may put the fear of God into the humans, but it will put the fear of  _ us _ into the angels,” Dagon declared, stepping forwards, and taking Ligur’s place.

Oh, no.

“Go on,” Beelzebub said slowly.

No, no, no! He’d had it!

“Wiping out so many humans like this. It won’t just make them angry like Crowley said, it will  _ terrify _ them. It will make them wonder, what else are we capable of? Right now they just see us as pests. The Fallen. The failures. Nothing more than those that were cast out and left to die,” Dagon said, and Crowley winced at her words. Her voice was low and calm, yet she was raising the hackles of every single demon in the room. She was deliberately pressing on a collective sore spot.

“Well, it doesn’t exactly help when idiotzz go round breaking into their houzzezz and moving their furniture around!” Beelzebub snapped.

“It was a joke! I said I was sorry!” came a voice from the back of the room.

“But this. This will change all of that. This will make them think of us as dangerous. Dastardly. Worthy of respect. They think they’re winning right now. This will show them that they're not.” Dagon’s voice spoke slowly and carefully. 

She had put everyone on edge, now she was soothing them. She'd painted a bleak picture of reality, and now she was offering them the solution. Her voice was a beckoning hand, a trail of crumbs on the forest floor urging the demons to follow her. 

As Dagon spoke, Crowley couldn't help but notice the way her scales shimmered in the murky glow of the throne room. In all the darkness that surrounded them, Dagon was the bright spot, and she used that to pull them in. 

The worst part was - it was working. Every demon in the room wanted what she was offering - to be truly feared by the angels. Even Beelzebub. A small smile had appeared on zir face, and grown broader while Dagon was talking. 

At the sight of it, a bubble of panic burst in Crowley’s chest. It was the worst moment to lose control, and yet, against his will, his mouth opened and words began tumbling out, with all the eloquence of a man falling down a flight of stairs.

“They already think we're dangerous! They're already scared of us! I mean, for one, that- that - that furniture thing. You make fun of Enoch for doing that, but I have it on good authority that the angel in question, his shins were quite bruised after that. Very shaken up about it.”

Dagon didn’t even look at him. She just continued talking as if he hadn’t interrupted.

“Until now, only God and the Horsemen have had the power to wreak havoc of this nature upon the world. Now we can! God can send Her little droughts, and Her storms. This is something else entirely. This will be a scourge upon the land, and  _ we _ will have made it. We can hold our heads high as demons, knowing that we are just as capable, just as dangerous, just as deadly as God Herself. More so!” Dagon’s voice was rising, becoming more passionate, and with it, the emotions of every demon in the room. Crowley glanced round, and saw how they responded to it, the fire that burned in their eyes. They wanted what she was promising. 

Crowley took a breath and tried to rein in his panicking. The thing with demons was you didn’t necessarily have to be smart to win the argument. You just had to  _ sound _ smarter. He just needed to calm down, and seem confident, and he could still win this.

“Listen, every angel's worst fear is Falling -” Crowley began, but Dagon cut him off.

“That means they're scared of being cast out! Not that they’re scared of us! They underestimate us!”

“And that's a good thing! It’s easier to win when you're being underestimated!” Crowley yelled. He felt as though a jolt of electricity had run through him, and he realised that he had stumbled upon the crux of his argument. He could make this work.

“Lord Beelzebub –“ Crowley started.

“Silence! I’ve heard enough.”

“Quite right, my Lord –“ Dagon purred, a smug look on her face.

“Enough from all of you!” Beelzebub yelled, the buzzing of the flies around zir head reaching cacophonous levels. Dagon and Ligur recoiled. The whole room inched backwards, away from zem.

Crowley let out a breath and tried one last time.

“My Lord, please, there will be no coming back from this,” he pleaded, desperation in his voice.

“I said, silence, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, a fury on zir face like Crowley had never seen. Crowley bowed his head and stepped backwards to join Dagon and Ligur. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“I need to deliberate. Everyone out! I’ll make my ruling shortly. Hastur! Keep an eye on Crowley, make sure he doesn't run off!”

“Gladly,” Hastur growled, an unpleasant sense of delight in his voice.

It was almost a full hour later when Beelzebub called everyone back into the throne room. Beelzebub was sprawled across the throne, waiting for them. Zir flies were calm now, and most of them were settled, resting on Beelzebub and covering zir like a blanket. A strange, black, hairy, blanket made of hundreds of thousands of moving pieces that shimmered under the throne room lights.

Hastur relished in obeying Beelzebub’s instructions and frog-marched Crowley back to the front of the throne room. Crowley’s heart was in his throat, but he was feeling vaguely optimistic. It was an awfully long time for Beelzebub to have taken just to rule against him. Unless ze was just thinking about exactly how to punish him. Or maybe ze just liked watching him squirm while he waited. Oh, fuck. He was a goner, wasn’t he?

“Crowley,” Beelzebub began, and Crowley felt his soul bidding adieu to his body. “That wazz well argued. And so, I will  _ not _ be feeding you to my fliezz.”

“Yes! Oh thank Satan, I won!” Crowley breathed, almost in disbelief, as a weak laugh escaped him. Beside him, he heard Dagon muttering curse words.

“Oh, no, you didn’t. Dagon won.” Beelzebub said, a wicked smile slowly spreading across zir face.

“Wait, what?” Dagon and Crowley gaped as one. They glanced at each other, then back at Beelzebub, neither of them quite understanding what was going on.

“I weighed the pros and conzz and decided I  _ am _ still unleashing the plague. I'm ruling on Dagon'zz side."

"Yes! Aha! Thank you, my Lord!" Dagon cackled triumphantly. At a look from Beelzebub, she fell silent, though nothing could have removed the ecstatic look from her face.

" _ But _ it was a difficult decizzion, and Crowley, you raised some pointzz I hadn’t considered before. So I decided, this was not a waste of my time, so you’re not going to be punished.”

“Oh. Thank you, Lord,” Crowley managed to get out. He had to keep up some charade of politeness and loyalty, even as he felt like vomiting. Or fainting. Or both.

“You said it yourzzelf. You’ve been on Earth since the beginning. You understand the humanzz better than any of us. If you say that humanzz might behave themselves better because of this, then I have to take that into account. Which is why I am making it your job to make sure they  _ don’t _ act better. Everything you said, about putting aside differences and working together - you need to make sure they don’t do that. Tempt them, corrupt them, make sure they give in to dezzperation and dezzpair. You need to make them doubt God.” 

“Right. Of course. Yes. Yes, Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley said. Make the humans give into desperation and despair. Yeah, he could probably teach them a thing or two about that. He was already doing it himself.

Crowley sank into a deep bow, and immediately regretted it. The nausea he was feeling combined with the sudden movement made it feel like the world was spinning. Crowley swallowed whatever it was that was threatening to come back up and stood upright again.

“Right! Everybody back to work! Dismissed!” Beelzebub roared, and the demons fled from the court like their lives depended on it. Or, more accurately, like their corporeal forms depended on it, which they very much did.

Crowley had failed. Of course he’d failed. That was what he did. He was a fuck up. That's why he'd Fallen, wasn’t it? That's why he sucked at being a demon; why he constantly had to fake it. He wasn't good enough to be good, but he was still too good to be any good at being bad. Hell, he was so much of a fuck up that he'd fallen head over heels for the first person to smile at him since his Fall, and  **_then_ ** he'd fucked up the magic spell that was supposed to fix that.

But this... This was bigger than all of that combined. This was undeniably the worst mistake he had ever made. He'd lost the appeal, and now millions of people, millions of  _ children _ , would die. The only thing he had actually managed to do was save his own worthless hide, and he’d saved it on the condition that he would make life worse for people who were already suffering. 

Crowley staggered back up the obsidian staircase, and made his way through the forest, and wandered until he found a bar. It could have taken hours or days. He didn’t know which. All he knew was that he didn’t stop walking until he found a chair to collapse into and a barkeep to take his order.

“Strongest thing you've got. Alcohol. I don’t care what kind.”

It was going to be a long, long century.


	14. The Plague of the Anglerfish: Part 2 - Dubious Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is not handling the plague well, and Aziraphale seriously needs a break.
> 
> Continuing content warning for mentions of death, infectious disease and alcohol abuse. There's one more part to the plague arc, and then we're on to the 1500s (or potentially the 1600s. I make no promises), so if you're trying to avoid any of the above, please feel free to skip, and I'll put a quick plot recap in at the beginning of the first non-plague chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to my wife Lou for her support and help with pesky things like commas.

Several years passed, each one proving itself to be the worst of Crowley’s long life.

If Crowley had had any say over the matter, he would have run off to some far-slung corner of the globe where the illness had not managed to take hold and hide out there until this was all over. Unfortunately, doing that would be going against Beelzebub's direct orders. His second choice would have been to stay in the middle of it all, but to not do anything to make things worse; just take credit for things the humans did on their own (which he already did on a regular basis). But he couldn’t do that either because of Dagon.

After the appeal, Dagon had told Crowley she would be double-checking each one of his mission reports. It wasn’t her job to do so, but she wanted to keep a close eye on him. She didn’t suspect he was a traitor – thank Satan – she just thought he was a sore loser. She was worried he was going to deliberately sabotage her project just so that he would be proved right.

As far as Crowley was aware, Dagon couldn’t actually _watch_ him, and supposedly, her double-checking would entail only making sure that the events in his reports had actually happened, and that he hadn’t completely fabricated them. Still. If Dagon was anything, she was thorough. With the amount of scrutiny he was under, it was probably wise to keep slacking off the _exact same amount_ as before. If his productivity suddenly shot up after being told that his work was being double-checked, that would be just as damning as being caught in a lie.

In short, as much as he might hate it, until the plague was over, he would be following Beelzebub’s orders. He would be doing his job.

At first, Crowley had tried to throw himself into it. He’d tried to think of it as just any other job. He was a demon, after all. This was evil. He shouldn’t have a problem with it. But as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, it _wasn’t_ like any other job. He didn’t feel intelligent, sly, or cunning, like he had when he'd tempted Eve to eat the apple. He couldn't justify it to himself, like he could justify fighting the Romans. It wasn’t grandiose and theatrical like playing the Black Knight had been, and it certainly wasn't fun like raising a family of thieves in Tangier had been.

Crowley’s job was to find humans who were suffering - who were experiencing more pain, fear and misery than they ever had in their lives - and stamp the hope out of them. He was kicking them while they were down. It was sickeningly easy, and the results were gruesome. He hated every second of it, and what he felt most of all was guilt.

Mostly, Crowley tried very hard **_not_ ** to think about what he was doing. He tried not to think about the tiny bodies that were being carried out of houses everywhere he went. He tried not to think about the overwhelming smell of filth and decay that filled the air. He tried not to think about the fact that he spent his days tempting sick and dying people into fights or acts of thievery. He tried not to think about the fact that because of him, many people spent their final days alone or imprisoned.

But did trying not to think about something ever work? He needed something to quiet his mind at night, to stop himself from thinking his blasted thoughts and let him sleep. He needed something to keep his conscience quiet during the day and let him just do what he needed to do. He needed something to erase the memories of particularly gruesome days from his mind altogether.

Eventually, Crowley began keeping a flask of something strong and spirit-lifting on his person at all times. During the day, he showed restraint, as he had to remain at least partially functional in order to do his work. At night, however, he let loose. Crowley drank until he tasted oblivion, and then kept drinking afterwards, just to be safe.

If he had been human, the way he was abusing alcohol would have poisoned his liver and threatened his life. As a demon, however, he wasn’t even sure he _had_ a liver. And since it couldn’t hurt his health, he saw no reason to stop or slow down.

One morning, Crowley awoke to find himself with no idea of where he was, and no memory of how he had gotten there. He still felt quite drunk. He must not have sobered up the night before, as there was a great deal of alcohol still in his system. As a demon, he didn’t get hangovers, so he didn’t feel bad, as such, only annoyed that his dream had ended, and he was back in the real world.

Without opening his eyes, Crowley could tell he wasn’t in a bed – he was laying on something cold, hard, and wet - but beyond that, he hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t curious enough to investigate his surroundings, though. If he started moving, then he would have to get up, and then the day would begin. And Crowley didn’t want the day to begin; he wanted to retreat back into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

It was fine. It didn’t matter where he was. He could just go back to sleep. Sure, it was uncomfortable, and it smelled bad, but Crowley could ignore that. He could just stop inhaling through his nose. Or he could just stop breathing altogether. He was a demon— he didn’t need to, after all. He only chose to do things like breathe to blend in among humans, but he could cope perfectly well without air.

Crowley switched off his respiratory system and tried to go back to sleep.

“Bring out your dead!” came the cry, accompanied by the ringing of a bell, interrupting the quiet calm of the early morning. The body carts came around every day, and they had the whole city to cover, so they liked to get an early start.

Crowley still didn’t get up. He was hoping if he laid very still and didn’t draw any attention to himself, then maybe God, or Satan, or whoever it was who had taken it upon themselves to make his life so miserable, would forget he existed, leave him alone, and let him sleep.

It was okay. It would pass soon. This would all pass, soon enough. Right at that moment, the plague felt like it would go on forever, but that’s exactly what the Flood had felt like, too. Those forty days and forty nights had been excruciating. Now the Flood was nothing more than a distant memory.

“Bring out your dead!” the cry came again, closer this time.

Crowley groaned. What would it take to shut all the sounds of the world out? What would it take to put him back to sleep? A minor miracle? Fine, done. A minor miracle was more than worth it, Crowley decided. He snapped his fingers and didn’t so much allow unconsciousness to reclaim him, as he did grab unconsciousness and hold it at knife point until it took him away.

Unbeknownst to the now blissfully slumbering Crowley, the body cart came closer. The cart was pulled along by a slowly trotting horse and driven by two men. The men sat in the front, a thick wooden partition separating them from their macabre cargo. They were both dressed in dark clothing and covered head to toe, with long sleeves and trouser legs, leather gloves, and masked hoods. Only their eyes were exposed. Without getting up close and inspecting their irises, the only thing an observer could use to distinguish between the two man-shaped shrouds of cloth was their height.

As they trundled along, between each call of “bring out your dead," they chatted to each other. None of the words they were saying were of any particular interest to Crowley, who was now sound asleep with a thick fog wrapped around his mind. But had Crowley been more lucid and paying attention, he would have heard the following conversation.

“Yeah, I guess I might come and see the bard. Hann told me the original book was better than his retelling of it,” the taller of the two said.

“Bards do more than just recount the events of a book. Obviously, he has to cut _some_ stuff out because of time restraints, but he adds his own spin, and improvises, and really brings out the characters. Plus, the music is always really good. Honestly, I don’t think you should compare the two,” the smaller of the two said.

“I guess, but they always seem to cut out my favourite bits. Maybe some books would be better if the bard told them in several parts, over the course of a few weeks?” Taller said.

“I dunno, I like a satisfying conclusion. I don’t want to wait a full week wondering what’s going to happen next,” Smaller argued.

“I can see where you’re coming from there, but –“

“Oh, stop the cart, there’s one there!” Smaller cried out.

Taller pulled on the horse's reins and brought the cart to a stop. The two men hopped out and moved closer to inspect the body they had just found.

“Actually, I’m not sure if this one’s dead or not,” Smaller said.

“Well, I don’t think he’s breathing,” Taller pointed out, eyeing the man's chest. It wasn’t moving.

“He doesn’t look like a plague victim, though. No blisters, no pustules. His skin’s not got that sour purple look about it. And he doesn’t have that sick smell,” Smaller said, warily circling the body, trying to examine it without getting too close.

“No, he doesn’t. But we never said we dealt exclusively with plague victims. I mean, yeah, that’s what we mostly do. But really dead bodies in the street need removing no matter how they got there.”

“I’m still not sure he’s actually dead.”

Had Crowley been more aware of his surroundings, he would have heard the footsteps approaching him. He would have felt the firm jabs at his side and a large gloved hand slapping his face. He would have felt a smaller gloved hand pressed against his chest, feeling for a heartbeat. He would have felt his wrists and ankles being seized and the sudden weightlessness of being lifted off the ground. As it was, he was too deep in slumber to notice a thing. The cart started moving again, and Crowley slept on.

Elrich Savatier had been the last of his family. At twelve years old, he'd watched his mother, his father, and his two younger sisters all succumb to the disease before it finally came for him. He hadn’t had anyone to care for him as he grew weaker and sicker. That was, until Aziraphale arrived.

Aziraphale had tried desperately to heal him, but even his strongest miracles were powerless against the deadly infection. He’d arrived too late. All he could do was fetch the boy water, ease his pain, and keep him company until the end. With Aziraphale’s assistance, Elrich had fallen asleep around midnight.

“I know it hurts, Elrich. But if you close your eyes, I’m sure you’ll drift off. And when you do, you can have a lovely dream about whatever it is you like most."

At around half past four, Aziraphale had watched Elrich's aura fade from grey to black and then disappear entirely. Elrich wouldn’t be waking up again. Aziraphale allowed himself a minute to sit and wipe the grief from his eyes. He also allowed himself to be angry. Angry at Hell for releasing this plague, yes, but also angry at himself for being so helpless in the face of it. His miracles rarely seemed to work against this disease, and he suspected he knew why.

His powers were Heavenly in origin, and they allowed him to easily manipulate and affect the natural world. But this disease wasn’t a natural one. It had been brought about by the forces of Hell. Broadly speaking, when it was magic versus nature, magic won. But when it was Heavenly magic versus Hellish magic, it was anybody’s guess – and in the case of this disease, the infection almost always had a head start on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s minute was up. He pushed his emotions aside and began to tend to Elrich’s body. Elrich's soul had already moved on, and this technically wasn't necessary, but Aziraphale had been living with humans for thousands of years by now. He knew how sentimental they got about their bodies. Caring for it seemed like the right thing to do. So, he'd washed Elrich, redressed him, and lovingly wrapped him in a blanket that his mother had made for him.

Now, Aziraphale waited for the cart that would take Elrich away.

“Bring out your dead!” came the cry as the cart drew closer.

“Over here!” Aziraphale called.

One of the men waved to show they'd heard him, and the cart slowed its approach, coming to a stop beside him. They hopped down from the cart and greeted Aziraphale. The smaller of the two held out his arms, ready to relieve Aziraphale of the body he was holding, but somehow that didn't feel right. Aziraphale walked round to the back of the cart and gently placed Elrich down.

“Goodbye, Elrich,” he said.

Aziraphale was talking to an empty vessel; Elrich’s soul had already moved on, he’d seen it happen. And yet, he didn’t want to walk away. He was filled with this deep sense that he hadn’t done enough. Maybe if he’d arrived earlier, maybe if he’d had other angels to help him, things could have been different.

Things weren’t different, though. He had arrived when he had, on his own, and Elrich was dead. There was nothing he could do to change that now. All he could do was hope to find the next poor soul before it was too late.

Aziraphale stood up straight, and moved to turn away, but something in the corner of his vision made him stop. It was a tangled mass of long red hair, and Aziraphale’s stomach sank as he realised who it belonged to.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale gasped.

He didn't believe it. Crowley, his heredity enemy, his best friend, was lying in a plague cart. This – this couldn't be happening!

“Who's Crowley?” Smaller asked, following him to the back of the cart.

“This man, the – red hair and ivory skin. I – He’s not, I mean, the plague can’t discorporate – I mean, he's a - _he shouldn't be dead!_ ” Aziraphale stammered, unable to take his eyes off of Crowley's body.

“I know he shouldn’t. None of them should.” Smaller said, attempting to comfort Aziraphale. He brought a gloved hand up to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale shook him off.

“No, you don’t understand. He’s not... I mean, death just isn't his style.”

Crowley’s eyes were uncovered by his usual dark glasses, so Aziraphale could see quite clearly that they were closed. In fact, he looked rather peaceful – more so than he ever had in life. No, not ‘in life’, because that implied that he was no longer ‘in life', which implied he was dead, and he wasn’t dead! But then how had his lifeless body ended up in a plague cart?

“Where – where did you find him?” Aziraphale asked, scrabbling for more information.

“Just by the side of the road. Up Elson Lane,” Taller said. For a man in his line of work, he seemed vaguely unsettled by Aziraphale's display of emotions.

“I see. And he... He doesn’t look like he's been sick. I mean, he is a little thinner than he was when I last saw him, but other than that, his body doesn’t look damaged. He looks _fine_ ,” Aziraphale said.

Demons couldn’t die, but they could be discorporated. Discorporation would have required Crowley's body to be damaged beyond repair. And yet, he barely had a scratch on him.

Had Crowley had just gotten _bored_ and abandoned his physical form? Had he permanently returned to Hell? Wouldn't Crowley have told Aziraphale first before doing that?

Aziraphale suddenly realised that the two men had been speaking for some time, and that he hadn’t heard a word they said.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Aziraphale asked.

“I said, I’m sorry, but we don’t know how he died. It might not have been the disease; it could have been anything. He was ice cold when we found him, I think he’d been gone for a few hours at least,” Smaller said.

“Listen, I understand you might not want to accept it. But he's not breathing, his heart's not beating. He’s definitely dead,” Taller said, bluntly, trying to skip Aziraphale along to the next stage of grief.

Which – Aziraphale wasn't grieving, was he? Surely it didn’t count, when there was a decent chance his friend would be coming back? Crowley was probably picking out a new corporeal vessel at this very moment. Crowley was coming back, he wasn't dead!

“Were the two of you friends?” Smaller asked, taking a gentler route to try to help Aziraphale process this.

“Yes. We were friends. We’d lost touch for a while, but we were still friends. We were still... And, and– this is just so unexpected. I didn't think he would just _leave me_ like this,” Aziraphale said, a lump developing in his throat. Smaller and Taller glanced at each other.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have, if he’d been given the choice,” Smaller said, softly.

Oh God.

What if Crowley hadn’t been given the choice? What if Hell had found out about the Arrangement? What if they noticed that Crowley wasn’t doing the demonic deeds he claimed to be doing? What if demons had come up to Earth, and dragged Crowley’s soul back down to Hell for punishment?

What if this was Aziraphale’s fault?

But then if that was the case… why did Crowley look so peaceful? Why wasn’t he visibly injured? If Crowley had been found out, it would have been a group of demons sent to fetch him. Demons were brutal when they fought. Crowley’s body should have been badly injured; it should have been burnt by Hellfire.

The more Aziraphale looked at Crowley, the more he felt that something just wasn't right. Something in this image was wrong. Something obvious, something staring him right in the face.

Maybe Aziraphale just didn’t want to believe this was happening, like Taller said. Maybe he was in denial. Maybe -

“AH! THAT’S IT!” Aziraphale jumped with excitement, the sudden noise and change in his demeanour startling Taller and Smaller.

“He hasn't been discorporated! He's not dead, either! He can't be! _He still has an aura!_ ” Aziraphale yelled out.

There was a ring of pale blue light around Crowley’s body. The other bodies in the plague cart didn’t because their essences had all moved on. Crowley's essence hadn't! The light was faint, so faint Aziraphale almost hadn’t noticed it, but it was definitely there. Breathless laughter broke forth from Aziraphale's lips. He was almost giddy with relief at the realisation. He didn't know if Crowley was asleep, or perhaps injured and taking time to heal himself, but whatever he was doing, his essence was still connected to his corporeal form. Smaller and Taller glanced at each other, somehow managing to exchange meaningful looks even with the concealment of their faces. Aziraphale ignored them and reached out to pick Crowley up off of the cart.

“Woah, woah, what are you doing?” Smaller asked, rushing forwards to stop him, placing himself between Aziraphale and the cart.

“Well, he's not dead, and this cart is for dead people, so it makes sense to me to remove him from it. No?” Aziraphale said, as he tried to step around Smaller.

“No! We can't let people just claim bodies. This is not a give-a-corpse, take-a-corpse situation! That's not how this works. Your friend is dead,” Smaller said.

As he spoke, he stepped sideways, staying parallel with Aziraphale. He threw a pleading glance towards Taller. Taller huffed with annoyance before stepping closer and laying a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder.

“Seriously, you can't have your friend. I'm sorry. He needs to be taken to the pit and buried, and you need to stand back and let us keep moving.”

“Oh for Heaven's sake,” Aziraphale groaned. This was getting ridiculous. Was he going to have to fight his way past two humans to get to Crowley?

Then it occurred to him. If he could use magic to put people to sleep, why couldn’t he wake them up? It probably wouldn't feel that pleasant, but speaking from personal experience, it would probably be a lot better than being buried. It didn't look like he had the luxury of waiting for Crowley to wake up on his own. Aziraphale was going to have to grab Crowley’s essence and drag him back out into the waking world. Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a breath before seeking out Crowley's essence with his own. Oh, for Heaven's sake. Foolish creature that he was, he’d put himself into a magically induced nap and hadn’t set any conditions for when he was to be pulled out of it. No wonder all this hubbub hadn’t roused him.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and snapped his fingers.

It was as if a surge of electricity had run through Crowley. His whole body jerked and shuddered, a strangled cry forcing its way out of his mouth as he sat bolt upright. At the sound of Crowley’s cry, Smaller and Taller spun to face him and let out their own choked off noises of alarm.

“Fucking Hell!” Crowley groaned. He rubbed his eyes and tilted his head from side to side until his neck let out several loud, satisfying-sounding cracks.

“That’s not possible,” Taller gasped, as Crowley, suddenly and inarguably not dead, tried to run a hand through his matted, unwashed hair.

“God save us, look at his eyes!” Smaller hissed.

“Oh, I don’t know what just happened, but I didn’t like it one bit,” Crowley groaned, looking round and blinking in the early morning sun. An expression of horror and dread slowly came over his face, as he noticed the bodies lying next to him in the cart. He raised a hand to his mouth and rather looked like he was suppressing the urge to vomit.

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright. Looks like I missed something horrible. Feel no need to fill me in on the details,” Crowley said, his words slurring together.

Ah. That would explain why they found his body on the side of the road.

“But you were dead!” Taller exclaimed in a somewhat accusatory manner.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Crowley shrugged, not realising the implications of what he had just said. 

He slithered off the cart with the grace of a person who had suddenly discovered that their legs had one more joint than they were expecting. At the sight of him moving, Taller and Smaller both let out cries of terror and scrambled backwards. They clutched at each other, seemingly unwilling or unable to run but desperate to keep their distance as much as they could. Crowley ignored the two men and staggered over to Aziraphale.

“Hello, Aziraphale. Nice to see you,” Crowley said, grinning lopsidedly. He almost fell and grabbed at Aziraphale to steady himself.

“I wish I could return the sentiment,” Aziraphale said shortly, gently guiding Crowley into a more upright position.

Less than ten minutes ago, Aziraphale had been terrified that Crowley was dead. Then, he'd been over the moon with relief that Crowley was alive, and now, he was realising with a sense of growing dread that he would have to mind an inebriated Crowley instead of doing his actual work.

All this, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

“You're no fun,” Crowley pouted childishly.

“You're drunk. Come on, I’m taking you home. You can sober up, and I’ll make you something to eat,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t add _and we can have a long, hard talk about some of your recent choices,_ but it was strongly implied. Crowley gave him a sidelong look, squinting as he weighed up this offer – not seeming to realise it wasn’t an offer, but an order.

“Mmmm. How about, you take me home and cook dinner -"

“Breakfast,” Aziraphale corrected.

“- and after that we can negati- notitia- nugotio- we can argue about me sobering up.”

“Oh, fine,” Aziraphale sighed. He was willing to agree to anything just to get Crowley off the street. If Crowley refused to sober himself up magically, Aziraphale could always just tuck him into bed and leave him there to rest while Aziraphale went out and did his holy work.

“No, this doesn't- he wasn't just drunk! He wasn't breathing. He didn’t have a heartbeat. He can't now just be walking around as if he's fine,” insisted Smaller, as though if he repeated his version of events enough then reality would realign itself with then.

“Perhaps you were mistaken?” Aziraphale suggested, making sure to keep his voice as polite as it was possible to be while insinuating someone wasn’t doing their job properly.

“Okay, sure, we’re not infallible. But even if we were mistaken – which I really don’t think we were – that doesn’t explain how you woke him up just by snapping your fingers! Because we spoke to him and slapped him and tried to wake him up, and he didn’t even _stir_ ,” Taller argued.

Ah. Aziraphale had performed a miracle in front of humans. An unauthorised, quite definitely illegal miracle, no less. That was an issue.

“Are you some kind of witch?” Smaller asked. He seemed to have already decided that the answer was yes and was merely waiting for confirmation from Aziraphale.

“Gentlemen, please, there's a rational explanation here,” Aziraphale started in a reasonable sounding tone, a strained smile on his face. “As you can see, my dear friend here is definitely not dead. Dead people do not get up and start walking around. What he is, I think we can all agree, is an idiot. He simply drank too much and passed out. Now, how did I wake him up? An excellent question. And, well, the answer is that I, um, -"

“Yeah, they’re not buying this, angel,” Crowley interrupted, before snapping his fingers. Both men fell silent, and their arms fell slack by their sides.

“Crowley? What did you just do?” Aziraphale exclaimed, shocked.

“I shut ‘em up and removed their memories of us.”

“You didn’t even edit the memories? You just flat-out removed them? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Aziraphale demanded indignantly.

“Oh, don’t worry, they’ll wake up and be back to normal as soon as we're outta sight. Let’s go,” Crowley said, turning on the spot and beginning to saunter down the road. In all honesty, saunter was a charitable word for what he was doing. A more accurate way of describing it was that Crowley was walking as though the whole world was tilted and he was trying to counterbalance himself by tilting in the opposite direction.

Aziraphale looked back and forth between the two men, frozen in place, and Crowley. He really should make sure these two humans were okay and had adjusted to Crowley’s magic properly, but the more time he spent dealing with Crowley’s nonsense, the less time he would have for the humans he was supposed to be helping today. Aziraphale let out a frustrated noise and hurried after Crowley.

“Here, let me,” Aziraphale said, taking one of Crowley's arms in his own, trying to help him keep his balance.

He expected Crowley to protest and attempt to push Aziraphale away, but instead, Crowley accepted his assistance. He even leaned into it. Of all the things that had happened that morning, Crowley being open to the barest amount of physical affection was far from the strangest, so Aziraphale didn’t dwell on it. Now that Crowley was pressed against him, Aziraphale could feel how cold the demon was – not all that surprising, as Crowley’s clothes were soaked through. Aziraphale unbuckled his own cloak and wrapped it around Crowley before tucking this disastrous demon delinquent close to his side and hurrying home.


End file.
